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TREASURES 




BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCHES, 



/ 
PROF. FRANK McALPINE. 



ILLUSTRATED. 



Sold by Subscription Only. 

^1 \':^ )) / 

CHICAGO AND PHILADELPmJt;;^.CV7-y, ^ , c-.n^G"^*^^ 

ELLIOTT & BEEZLET*: 
1883. 



tk 






CO.^YRIGHT. 1SS3. BY 

ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. 



XANTTACTrRED BT 
ElXIOTT & BeEZLET'S PCBLISHIXG HOCSE, 

Chicago asd Philadeubia. 



7 l^ 



INTRODUCTION. 



MILTON has said : " A good book is the precious hfe- 
blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on 
purpose to a life beyond life. " For our readers, we have tried 
to gather s*ich selections only as are worthy to be " embalmed 
and treasured up." 

If we have succeeded in avoiding anything like a text- 
hook upon literature, we have carried out the plan of our 
work. If we have succeeded in gathering up selections that 
are worthy of being called treasures, we have accomplished 
the object that we had in view. Then if our book finds a 
warm place in the heart of the reading public, our most 
earnest desire will be fully gratified. 

Literature may be viewed as a mighty river taking its 
rise in the dim past and running parallel with the crystal 
stream of time. In tracing this river from its source to 
where it flows into the great ocean of the present, we enter 
the province of a text-book upon literature. We should view 
the tributaries from the different tongues of the world, — 
their nature and the influence they have had upon the prog- 
ress and usefulness of the main channel. We should note 
this magnificent river pausing in classic Greece " to purify it- 
self and gain strength of wave for due occasion," and at 
Rome, — Kome that sat on her seven hills and from her throne 



4 INTKODUCTION. 

of glory ruled the world — to receive the trihutary that added 
vigorous grandeur to its tlow. We should examine its trib- 
utaries from tongues that spoke on the banks of the Nile, and 
in India and China, and on the sacred plains of Judea ; from 
the thoughtful lields of Germany, central Europe and fash- 
ionable France, till finally it was swelled to almost boundless 
proportions and influence by that greatest of all tributaries, 
— the one from the English tongue. 

But we have viewed the literary world as a bountiful har- 
vest from which to gather abundant stores of mental food. 
After having taken a careful survey of the entire field, sickle 
in hand, we have gone to the most fertile spots and gathered 
sheaves of the tallest, ripest and most perfect grain. As the 
judicious husbandman saves the best seed in anticipation of 
an improved and abundant harvest, so these sheaves of tall, 
ripe grain — this " precious life-blood " of the " master-spirits" 
— we have garnered up in Treasures from the Prose World. 

Frank McAlpine. 



CONTENTS. 



Advice to a Would-Be Criminal 


- Victor Hugo - 


65 


AdmIbation of Genius 


Lord Lijtton 


72 


At the Open Window 


- B. F. Taylor - 


75- 


And Sucu a Change - 


B. F. Taylor 


76- 


Autumn at Concord, Mass. 


- Hawthorne 


175^ 


Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 


Holmes 


218. 


Anglo- Saxon Influences of Home - 


- Geo. P. Marsh 


831' 


Ariel Among the Shoals, The 


Cooper 


845- 


Auorgines of America 


- Bancroft 


862- 


Beauty 


Emerson 


154- 


Buds and Bird Voices - 


- Hawthorne 


170 


Blind Preacher 


William Wirt 


195- 


Bald-Headed Man, The 


- Little Rock Oazettf 


f 355- 


Child's Dream of a Star, "A 


Vickens 


27 


Candid Man, The - - - - 


Lord Lytton 


128 


Changes of Matter 


Yeomans 


151 


Character of "Washington 


JcJj'erNO'n 


15G' 


Christianity ... - 


Charles Plullips - 


206 


Children and Their Education 


- Horace Mann - 


290' 


Chesterfield's Letters to His Son 


Chesterfield 


392 


Death of Little Jo - - - 


Dickens - 


30 


Dog-Days 


Gail Hamilton - 


399 


Eleonora . - . . - 


- Fjdijar A. Poe 


208' 


English Language 


Ww.. Mathews - 


215- 


Evening Walk in Virginu 


- J. K. Pauldiufi 


857. 



CONTENTS. 



Escape of Harry Bircu and Captain - 

Wharton ----- 
Fall of the Leaf, The 
Grave, The -----. 
Glass op Cold Water, A - - - 
Good Man's Day, A - - - - 
GooDTiioH Jones, Jr., To - . . 
Gentle Hand ----- 

How Tom Sawyer Whitewashed His Pence 

Happiness 

Heart Beneath a Stone, A 

Home ------- 

Happiness in Solitude 

How Curious it is 

Happiness of Temper - - - - 

Head-Stone, The 

Indian Summer - - - . - 
In the Garret - - - . - 
Joan of Arc ----- 

Jerusalem --.-.- 
Last Days of Pompeii . . - 

Love of Life and Age - • - - 
Little Eva - - - 

Lily's Eide ------ 

Little Woman, The - - . - 
Letters --.-.. 

Mother's Vacant Chair 
Musio of Child Laughter, The 
Musing by the Fire - - - - 

MaRRLVGE ------ 

My Mother's Bible - - - . 
Mocking Bird ----- 

Maxims of George Washington - 
Napoleon Buonap.\rte - - - - 
Our Revolutionary Fathers 



Cooper 

liusJdn - 

Irving 

J. B. Gough - 

Bishop Hall 

J. G. Holland 

T. S. Arthur 

Mark Twain - 

Colton 

Victor Hugo - 

T. S. Arthur 

J. J, Kosseaii - 

H. P. Shillaber - 

Goldsmith 

Wilson 

B. F. Taylor - 

KnicJcerbocker 

Thomas DcQimioj 

Benj. Disraeli 

Lord Lytton 

Goldsmith - 

Harriet B, Stoire 

Judge Tourgee 

Diekens 

Mitchell - 

Talmaqe 



B. F. Taglor 
Jeremy Taglor 



Ale.vander Wilson 
Washington 
Victor Hugo • 
Webster 



884- 
106 
41- 
68- 
228 
234- 
341- 
3G' 
55 
02 
110- 
140 
148- 
316 
380' 
17' 
328' 
144 
222 
123 
138 
267- 
281. 
310 
313^ 
34 
56- 
78- 
192 
244 
246 
306 
60 
50 



CONTENTS. 




7 


Old-Fashioned Mother, The 


B. F. Taylor ■ 


79 


Omens --..-. 


Sir Humphrey Davy 101 


Old Churchyard, The - - , - 


MacDonald 


109 


Old Age 


JEniersoii 


155 


On Eevenge 


Samuel Johnson 


186 


Old Age - - - - - 


Theo. Parker 


188 


Order in Nature 


Yeoman s 


199 


Of Beauty - - - . . 


Lord Bacon 


280 




Anonymous 


318 


Our Burden 


Addison 


323 


Outcasts OF Poker Flat, The 


Bret Ilarte 


338 ' 


Poetry and Mystery of the Sea 


Dr. Greenwood - 


19 


Paradise on Earth, A - - - 


Victor Hugo - 


59 


Personality and Uses of a Laugh 


Anonymous 


100 




liusldn - 


106 


Parents 


T. S. Arthur 


118' 


Puritans, The - - - - 


T. B. Macaulay 


149 


Poor Eichard 


Dr. Franklin 


158- 


Putting up Stoves .... 


Anomymous 


166 


Plea for the Erring, A - - - 


Wm. Mathews 


177 - 


Progress of Sin, The - - - . 


Jeremy Taylor 


190 


Penn's Advice to His Children - 


Wm. Penn 


203' 


Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City 




of Venice . . . . 


J). Disraeli 


227 


Pledge with Wine . . . . 


Anonymous 


270 


Prosperity and Adversity •■ 


Lord Bacon 


288 


Pictures --..._ 


H. P. Shillaber - 


305- 


Rural Life in England 


Irviny 


42- 


Rural Life in Sweden - - - - 


H. W. Lomjfellow 


90^ 


Rebecca's Description of the Siege - 


Scott 


252 


Schoolmaster, The . . . . 


Verplauck - 


G9- 


Scene at the Natural Bridge 


Burritt - 


96' 


Sky, The 


Jiuskin 


107 


Spider and the Bee, The 7 


Jonathan Swift 


117 


Spring 


Hawthorne 


174. 



8 CONTENTS. 

Shakespere's Style - - - - Wm. Mathncs 182 

Skylark, The Jeremy Taylor - 191 

Silent Forces Tyndall • - 232 

Studies - - ... Lord Bacon - 279 

Tramp, Tramp, Tramp - - - J. G. Holland 241 ■ 

Two Eaces of Men, The - - Charles Lamb - 273 

Thoughts on Various Subjects - - Jonathan Swift 334 

Uncle Tom Reads His Testament - - II. B. Stowe - 268' 

Voices of the Dead - - - - E. II. Chapin 376 

Work - - - - - . - - Thomas Carlyle 81 ' 

Welcome to Lafayette - - - Edward Everett 203 

Works of Creation, The - - - Addison - - 260 

Wonders of an Atom - - - Hu7it - - 245 




INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Addison, Joseph. 

OuK Burdens, - - . . 323 

The Wouks of Creation, - - - 260 

Arthur, T. S. 

Home, ---... jjo 

Parents, ---... II3 

Gentle Hand, - - . . . 341 

Bacon, Lord. 

Studies, ---... 279 

Beauty, - ----- 280 

Prosperity and Adversity, - - - . 288 

Bancroft, George. 

The Aborigines of America, - - - 862 

BuRRiTT, Elihu. 

Scene at the Natural Bridge, - - - 96 

Carlisle, Thomas. 

Work, .... - 81 

Chapin, E. H. 

Voices of the Dead, - - - . . 37^ 

Chesterfield, Lord. 

Letters to his Son, - - - - . 892 



10 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

CoorER, J. Fenimore. 

AiuEL Among the Shoals, .... 345 

Escape of Harvey Biuch and Captain Wharton, - 884 

CoLTON, Walter. 

IIapmnkss, - - - - - - 65 

Davy, Sir Humphrey. 

Omens, ---.-.. 101 

De Quincy, Thomas. 

Joan of Arc, --.... I44 

Dickens, Chas. 

Death of Little Jo, - - - - 80 

Child's Dream of a Star, - - - - 27 

The Little Woman, ----- 810 

Disraeli, Benj. 

Jerusalem, --..... 222 

Pictures ok Swiss Scenery and the City of Venice, 227 

Emerson. Ralph W. 

Beauty, - - - - - . - 154 

Old Age, --.... 155 

Everktt, Eowakp. 

Welcome to Lafayette, . - . . 202 

Franklin, Benjamin. 

Poor Richard, - - - - - 168 

GouGH, J. B. 

A Glass of Cold Water, . . . . qq 

Goldsmith, Oliver. 

Love of Life and Age, - - . . . igg 

Happiness of Temper, .... 816 

Greenwood. Dr. 

Poetry and Mystery of the Sea, - . - 19 



INDEX Oi*' AUTHOES. H 



228 



Hall, Bishop. 

A Good Man's Day, - - . . 

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. 

Autumn at Concord, Mass., - - . . 175 

Buds and Bird Voices, - - . . 170 

Spring, --...._ -trj^ 

Harte, Bret. 

The Outcasts of Poker Flat, - . . g88 

Hamilton, Gail, 

Dog-Days, ---... gg7 

Holmes, 0. W. 

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, - - . 218 

Holland, J. G. 

To Goodrich Jones, Jr., - . . . 234 
Tramp, Tramp, Tramp, - . . . . 241 

Hugo, Victor. 

Advice to a Would-be Criminal, 
Napoleon Buonaparte, - - . . 

A Heart Beneath a 8tone, - - - . 

A Paradise on Earth, - - . . 

Hunt, Leigh. 

Wonders of an Atom, .... 0^5 

Irving, Washington. 

The Grave, ------ 41 

EuRAL Life in England, - - . . - 42 

In the Garret, - - - . . 328 

Jefferson, Thomas. 

Character of Washington, - » „ - 15G 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel. 

On EfivjiNGE, - - o B . . 180 



65 
60 
62 
69 



12 INDEX OF AUTHOES. 

Lamb, Charles. '• 

The Two Races of Men, ----- 273 

Longfellow, H. W. 

EuE^Ui Life in Sweden, - - - - - 90 

Lytton, Lord Bulwer. 

Last Days of Pompeu, - - - - 123 

The Candid Man, - - - - - 128 

Admiration of Genius, - - - 72 

Mann, Hor^vce. 

ChildrE'N and Their Education, - - - - 290 

Mathews, Wm. 

English Language, - - - - - 215 

A Plea for the Erring, - ■ - . - 177 

Shakespere's Style, - ... - 182 

Macaulay. T. B. 

The Puritans, - - - - - - 149 

MacDonald, Geo. 

The Old Churchyard, - . ■ - 109 

Marsh, Geo. P. 

Anglo-Saxon Influences of Home, . . - 831 

Mitchell, Donald G. 

Letters, .-..-. 813 

Parker, Theodore. 

Old Age, - - - - - - 188 

Paulding. Jas. K. 

An Evening Walk in Virginlv, - - - - 367 

Penn. Wm. 

Penn's Advice to His Children, - - - - 203 

PniLLiirs. Charles. 

Christl\nity, --.--. 206 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 13 

PoE, Edgar A. 

Eleonora, ..... 208 

RusiaN, John. 

The Fall of the Leaf, .... 106 

The Sky, - ... - - - 107 

The Precipices, ..... 106 

ROSSEAU, J. J. 

Happiness in Solitude, - - - - 140 

SniLLABER, H. P. 

Pictures, ...... 305 

How Curious it is, - - - - - 148 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher. 

Little Eva, ...... 267 

Uncle Tom Reads his Testament, - - - 268 

Scott, Sir Walter, 

Rebecca's Description op the Siege, - - - 252 

Swift, Jonathan. 

Thoughts on Various Subjects, .... 834 

The Spider and Bee, - - - - - 117 

Taylor, B. F. 

At the Open Window, - - - - - 75 

Indian Summer, - - - - - 17 

The Old-Fashioned Mother, - - - - 79 

Musing by the Fire, ----- 78 

And Such a Change, - - - - - 76 

Twain, Mark. 

How Tom Sawyer Whitewashed his Fence, - - 36 

Tourgee, a. W. 

Lily's Ride, ...... 281 



14 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 

Taylor, Jeremy. 

Marriage, ----- - 



PkoctKess of Srs, 



Talmage, T. De Witt. 

Mother's Yacaxt Chair, 



190 



The Skylark, .... - 194 

- 34 



232 
69 



Tyxdall, John. 
SiLEXT Forces, 

Yerplauck, 

The Schoolmaster, 

"W'lET. YTlKLIAM. 

The Blind Preacher, - - - - l9o 

Webster, Daniel. 

Our Revolutionary Fathers, - - - 50 

Washington, George. 

Maxims, ....-- 306 

Wilson. Alexander. 

The Mocking Bird, ----- 246 

The He-VD -Stone, - - - ^^^ 

Yeoman, Prof. 

Order in Natitie, 



199 



Changes of Matter, -- - ' - lol 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 



Charles Dickens, . .... 24 

Washington Irving, - - - - - -36 

Victor Hugo, ------ 57 

Benjamin Franklin Taylor, - - - - - 73 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, - - - 88 

John Ruskin, ...... jqS 

Lord Lytton, ------ 121 

Oliver Goldsmith, ------ 130 

Ralph Waldo Emerson, - - - - - 152 

Nathaniel Hawthorne, - . . . . iqq 

Dr. Samuel Johnson, - - - - 184 

Edward Everett, - . - - - 200 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, ----- 21G 

JosiAH Gilbert Holland, . . - - 233 

Walter Scott, -..-.- 249 

Harriet Beecher Stowe, - . . . 205 

Horace Mann, .-..-. 289 

Donald G. Mitchell, - - - . . 312 

Bret Harte, ------- 336 

George Bancroft, - - - • - 360 



^rom tin* hintr ci the inlifntioii of printina. bociho. 
an^ not hiuijo. uutc to rule in the Ulorl^. iTih-apon'o 
forijf^ in the min^. hfcn-c^gcli, an^ briahtcr than a oun- 
bcam. lucre to onpplaut the olnorb an^ the battlc-a.vc. 
^uiohol liijht-houofo built on the oea of time I lilook'^I 
bjj luhov>e oorcery the tuhole pacjeautrrt of the luorl^o hio- 
tory moUeo in c>olemn proeeooion before the eneo. ^^rom 
their paaeo oreat ooulo looh tiolun in all their aran^enr. 
unliimme^ bn the faults anb follieci of earthlp exiotenre, 
fon!>ei"rate^ by time. 



TllKASIJIiES 



THE PROSE WOIiLU. 



Indian Summer. 

Tho Year haH paused to remember, and l)eautifu] her rruimorios 
are. She recalls the Spring; how soft tho air I And tho Kummor; 
how deep and wanri the sky I And the liui-veHt; liow pillar'd and 
golden the cloudw I And the rainbowH and the suriHetH ; how gor- 
geous are the woods 1 

Indian Bummer is nature's "sober, second thought," and to mc, 
tlie sweetest of the tliinking. A veil of golden gauze trfiils through 
the air; the woods en dhhahiUe, are gay with the hectic flushes of 
the Fall; and the l^right sun, relenting, comes meekly hack again, 
as if he would not go to Capricorn. He has a kindly look; lie no 
longer dazzles one's eyes out, but has a sunset softness in his face, 
and fairly blushes at the trick he meditated. Round, rod Hun ! rich 
ruby in the jewelry of God! it sets as big as the woods; and ten 
"acres of forest, in the distance, are relieved upon the groat disc — a 
rare device upon a glorious medallion. The sweet south wind has 
come again, and breathes softly through the woods, till they rustle 
like a banner of crimson and gold; and waltzes gaily with the dead 

2 



1^ TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

leaves that strew the ground, and whirls them quite away some- 
times, in its frohc, over the tields and the fences, and into the 
brook, in whose httle eddies they loiter on the way, and never get 
"down to the sea" at all. 

"Who wonders that, with this mirage of departed Summer in 
sight, the peach trees sometimes lose their reckoning, fancy Winter, 
pale fly-letif in the book of Time, has somehow slipped out, and put 
forth their rosy blossoms only to be carried away, to-day or to-mor- 
row, by the blasts of November. 

And with the sun and the wind, here are the birds once more. 
A blue bird warbles near the house, as it used to do; the sparrows 
are chii-jnng in the bushes, and the wood-robins flicker hke flakes 
of fire tlu-ough the trees. Now and then a crimson or yellow leaf 
winnows its way slowly down through the smoky light, and " the 
sound of dropping nuts is heard " in the still woods. The brook 
that a little while ago stole along in tlie shadow, rippling softly round 
the boughs that trailed idly in its waters, now t'vv'inkles all the way, 
on its journey down to the lake. It is Satui'day night of Nature and 
the Year — 

"Their breathing moment on the bridg« where Time 
Of light and dartness, forms an ai-ch sublime." 

There is nothing more to be done; everything is packed up; 
the wardrobe of Spring and Summer is all folded in those httle rus- 
set and rude cases, and laid away here and there, some in the earth, 
and some in the water, and lost, as we say, but after all, no more 
lost than is the little infant, when, laid upon a pillow it is rocked 
and sNmng, this way and that, in the aiTus of a carefid mother. So 
the dying, smiling Year is all ready to go. 

"Aye, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, 

When woods begin to wejir the crimson leaf, 

And suns grow meek, and the meek suus grow brief, . 

And the year smiles as it draws ne;u' its death. 
Winds of the sunny south! oh, still delay, 

In the gay woods and in the golden air. 

Like to a good old ago, released from care 
Joameylng ia long serenity, a^vay. 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 19 



"With Buch a bright, lato quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thcc, 'mid bowers and brooks: 
And ilcaror yet, tho Huu.shino of kind looks, 

And niusio of kind voices ever nigh. 
And when my last sand twinkles in tho glass. 
Pass silently from mou as thou dost pass." 



Poetry and Mystery of the Sea. 

rOnr Treasures would not be complete without the following beautifully sublime 
selection from tho pen of Dr. Greenwood. Kind reader, if you love poetry and beauti- 
ful word pictures, you can never weary in reading tlie following:] 

"The sea is His, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, 
in one of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses 
tho whole of a vast subject by a few simple words. Whose else, 
indeed, could it be, and by whom else could it have been m;xde? 
Who else can heave its tides and appoint its })ounds ? Wlio else can 
urge its mighty waves to madness with the breath and wings of the 
tempest, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and bid it 
be still? Who else could have peopled it with its countless inhabit- 
ants, and caused it to bring forth its various productions, and fiUed 
it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface, fiUed it from its cen- 
ter to its remotest shores, fiUed it to the brim with beauty, and 
mystery, and power? Majestic ocean! Glorious sea! No created 
being rules thee or made thee. 

What is there more subhme than the trackless, desert, aU-sur- 
rounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully sublime 
than the calm, gentle-heaving, silent sea? What is there more terri- 
bly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resist- 
less, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether 
in the careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult 
of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to 
make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, 
and the thimder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the 



20 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



joy of tJieii- dread iiUiance, to do tlic Almighty's bidding. And 
it is a\\^iil, too, Avhcn it sti-etches its broad level out to meet in 
qiiiot union the bondod sky, and show in the lino of meeting the vast 
rotundity of tlie \Yorld. Tlicre is majesty in its wide expanse, sep- 
arating aiid enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying 
two-thirds of the whole surface of the globe, penetiiitiug the land 
with its bays and secondary seas, and roceiN-ing tlie constantly pour- 
ing tribute of every river of every slioi-e. Thei-e is majesty in its 
fulness, never diminishing, and never increasing. There is majesty 
in its integrity, for its whole vast substance is imiform in its locivl 
imity, for thei-e is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of jiny one 
maritime spot may \-isit the inhabitjants of any other in tlie wide 
world. Its deptJi is sublime; who can sound it? Its strengtJi is 
subUme: what fabric of man can resist it? Its voice is subhme, 
whetlier in tlie prolonged song of its ripple or the stem music of its 
roar — whether it uttei"s its hollow and melsincholy tones within a 
labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or tliunders at the base of some huge 
promontory, or beats against a toiling vessel's sides, lulling the 
voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away 
with the calm and failing t\NiHght, in gentle murmurs on some shel- 
tered shore. 

Tho soa possesses beauty in richness of its o^wti ; it borrows it 
from eartli, and air, and heaven. The dcnids lend it the various 
dyes of tlioir wanli-obe, and tlirow do\\ni upon it tlie broad masses 
of their shadows as tliey go sailing and sweeping by. The rainbow 
laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to ^•isit it, and the 
moon, and the ghttering brotlierhood of planets and stars, for tliey 
delight themselves in its beauty. The simbeams return from it in 
showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it 
a pathway of silver, where they dtince to and fro witli the breezes 
and the waves, through tlie livelong night. It has a Hght, too, of 
its own, — a soft and sparkhng hght, rivahng the stars; and often 
does the sliip which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a milky 
way of dim and uncertain luster, like that which is shining liiiuly 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 21 

above. It liarraoiiizcs in its forms and sounds both with tlio night 
and the day. It checrfuUy reflects the light, and it unites solciunly 
with the diirkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and 
grandeur to tlic thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beautiful 
as one upon the borders of the sea? The spirit of its loveliness is 
from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and 
scattering its chaiins on aU the coasts. What rocks and clilfs iin; 
so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea? What 
groves and fields and dweUings are so enchanting as those which 
stand by the reflecting sea? 

If we could see the great ocean as it can be seen by no mortal 
eye, beholding at one view what we are now obhged to visit in detail 
and spot by spot, — if we could, from a fhght far higher than the 
eagle's, view the immense surface of the deep all spread out beneath 
us like a imiversal chart — what an infinite variety such a scene 
would display ! Here a storm would be raging, the thunder burst- 
ing, the waters boiling, and rain and foam and fire all mingling 
together; and here, next to this scene of magnificent confusion, we 
should see the bright ])lue waves glittering in the sun and clapping 
tlieir hands for very gladness. Here we should see a cluster of green 
islands set hke jewels in the bosom of the sea; and there we should 
see broad shoals and gray rocks, fretting the billows ajid threaten- 
ing the mariner. Here we discern a ship propelled by the steady 
wind of the tropics, and inhaling the almost visible odors which 
diffuse themselves around the Spice Islands of the east; there we 
sliould behold a vessel piercing the cold barrier of the north, strug- 
gling' among hills and fields of ice, and contending with Winter in 
his own everlasting dominion. Nor are the ships of man the only 
travelers we shall perceive upon this mighty map of the ocean. 
Flocks of sea-birds are passing and re-passing, diving for their food 
or for pastime, migrating from shore to shore with unwearied wing 
and undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming around the 
rocks which they make alive and vocal by their numbers and their 
clanging cries. 



22 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

We shall behold new wonders and riches when we inves- 
tigate the sea-shore. We shall find botli beauty for the eye and food 
for the body, in the varieties of sheU-fish which adhere in myriads 
to the rocks or form tl>eir close, dark burrows in the sands. In 
some parts of the world we shall see those houses of stone which 
the little coral insect roars up with patient industry from the bot- 
tom of tlie waters, till they grow into formidable rocks, and broad 
forests, whose branches never wave and whose leaves never fall. In 
other parts we shall see those jiale, glistening pearls which adorn 
the crowns of princes and are woven in the hair of beauty, extorted 
by tlie relentless grasp of man from the hidden stores of ocean. 
And spread round every coast there are beds of flowers and tliickets 
of plants, which the dow does not nourish, and which man has not 
sown, nor cultivated, nor reaped, but which seem to belong to the 
floods alone and the denizens of the floods, until they are thrown 
up by the surges, and we discover that even tlie dead spoils of tlie 
fields of ocean may fertiUze and enrich the fields of earth. 
They have a life, and a nourishment, and an economy of their own ; 
and we know little of tliem except that they are there in their briny 
nurseries, roared up into luxuriance by what would kill, like a mor- 
tal poison, tlie vegetation of tlie land. 

There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its deptlis. 
It is uufathomed and perhaps unfathomable. Who can tell, who 
shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the 
world? Who can teU what wells, what fountains are there to 
whidi tlie fountains of the earth are but drops? Who sluiU say 
whence the ocean derives those inexhaustible supphes of salt which 
so impregnate its waters that all tlie rivers of the earth, pouring 
into it fi-om tlie time of the creation, have not been able to freshen 
them? What undescribed monsters, what unimaginable shapes, 
may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking — 
and perhaps, from their nature, never able to seek — the upper waters 
and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What ghttering riches, 
what Leaps of gold, what stores of gems there must be scattered in 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 23 

lavish profusion in the ocean's lowest bed! What spoils from all 
cHmates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by 
the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine 
and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth? Who bears the keys 
of the deep? 

And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart, and mysterious to the 
mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, 
weltering, xmsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of 
those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been 
chanting requiem? What shrouds were wrapped round the hmbs 
of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were 
laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb? Where are the bones, 
the relics of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the 
parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the 
lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the wash- 
ing, wasting, wandering sea? The journeying winds may sigh as 
year after year they pass over their beds. The sohtary rain cloud 
may weep in darkness over the mingled remains which lie strewed 
in that unwonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to 
what spot their affections may chng? And where shall human tears 
be shed throughout that solemn sepulchre? It is mystery all. 
When shall it be resolved? Who shall find it out? Who but He 
to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom aU nature 
bows; He who shall one day speak and be heard in ocean's pro- 
foundest caves; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give 
up its dead, when the sun shall sicken, and the earth and the isles 
shall languish, and the heavens be roUed together hke a scroll, and 
there shall be iio more Sea. 




24 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



CHAELES DICKENS was bom at Laudport, a suburb of 
Portsmouth, England, February T, J 812, and be died at 
his home, known as Gadshill House, near Rochester, Kent, 
June 9, 1870. His father, John Dickens, was a clerk in the 
navy pay-office. 

Young Dickens received part of his education at Chat- 
ham, whither his parents had moved in 1816. His princi- 
pal studies, however, were "Robinson Crusoe," "Don Quixote," 
"Gill Bias," and other novels. In 1822 his father became 
bankrupt and was sent to prison for debt. Charles' family 
then removed to London, where the boy was put to work in 
a blacking factoiy. His father, now relieved by a small 
legacy, became a reporter for the "Morning Chronicle." 
After attending school for two years, the boy was placed in 
an attorney's office. Subsequently, he learned short-hand 
and became Parliamentary reporter for "The True Sun." 
Four years later, he was joined to the staff of the "Morning 
Chronicle. " 

At the age of nine, Dickens commenced his literary 
work by writing a tragedy, entitled Misnar, the Sultan of 
India. In 1834, appeared his first published sketch, Mrs. 
Joseph Porter Over the Way. A series of sketches followed 
in the "Old Monthly Magazine, " over the signature of "Boz." 
For want of pay these sketches were discontinued, and after- 
ward resumed in the "Chronicle" where they attracted much 
pubUc attention. 




CHARLES DICKENS. 



TEEASURES FROM THE PKOSE WOULD. 25 

In 183G these sketches were published in two volumes. 
The tide of Dickens' popularity had now fully set in, and 
sketches and books flowed from his pen like the steady 
movement of a mighty river. The Posthumous Papers of the 
Pickwick Club, upon the introduction of "Sam Weller," in 
the fifth number, grew in popularity, and upon completion 
of the "Papers," the author was famous. 

Oliver Twist, two anonymous volumes entitled Young 
Gentlemen and Young Couples, Memoirs of Joseph Gramaldi, 
Nicholas Nickleby, Old Curiosity Shop, and Barnahy Budge, 
quickly followed. 

In January, 1842, in company with his wife, Dickens 
sailed for the United States, and on the 22d, landed at 
Boston. He was received with groat enthusiasm. Upon his 
return home he published American Notes. Ho was severely 
censured for his exaggerations in speaking of American cus- 
toms. In 1844 appeared Martin Chuzzlewit. Then followed 
a year's travel in Italy, after which he became editor of the 
London "Daily News." In the "News" appeared his Pic- 
tures from Italy. His editorship was discontinued at the end 
of four months. Domhey and Son appeared in 1848, and 
David Copperfeld, in 1850. In 1850 he established "House- 
hold Words;" this being discontinued, in 1859 he started 
"All the Year Round." At this time he wrote a popular 
Child's History of England. Omitting his other works we 
will only record the productions of A Tale of Tivo Cities, 
published in 1800; Great Expectations, 1861; Our Mutual 
Friend, in 1805. 

Visiting the United States again in 1807, he gave public 
readings from his works, in the Eastern and Middle States. 



26 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Dickens w;is an almost, perfect actor, and his laborious 
study had prepared him to make his readings iu this country 
the most successful part of his life work. 

In a financial, as well as in a literar}* sense, his life 
work was eminently successful. The CJiihVs Dream, of <i 
Star, which we have selected for this book, has been issued 
in a beautiful, illustrated edition. His writings are so Avell 
known that wo will make no further record of them here. 

Dickens' social history is brief. He was the second of 
eight children. In 1836, he married Catherine, the eldest 
daughter of George Hogarth, an editorial writer for the 
"Chronicle." They had seven children, but in 1S58 arranged 
a formal separation, the reasons for which have never been 
made public. He once refused a baronetcy. He willed that 
no public announcement be made of his burial ; that his 
name be inscribed on his tomb in plain English letters, with- 
out any title. Ho wished no monument, but said : "I rest my 
claims to the reviembrance of my country upon ni}'^ published 
works." A grateful world will remember him. Leaving 
The Mystery of Edicin Drood unfinished, he died at the time 
given in the beginning of this sketch, from a stroke of apo- 
plexy, and was buried privately iu the poet's corner of "West- 
minster Abbey. 



TEEASUEES I'llOM THE I'KOSE WOKLI). 27 



The Ciiild's Dream, of a Star. 

There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and 
thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child, 
too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all 
day long. They wondered at the bea.uty of the flowers; they won- 
dered at the height and-blueness of the sky; they wondered at the 
depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the 
power of God who made the lovely world. 

They used to say to one another, sometimes, "Supposing all the 
children upon the earth were to die, would the flowers, and the 
Avater, and the sky be sorry?" They believed they would be sorry: 
"For," said they, "the buds are the children of the flowers; and the 
little j)layful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children 
of the waters; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide- 
and-seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the 
stars; and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the 
children of men, no more." There was one clear, shining star that 
used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church-spire, 
above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, 
than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing 
hand in hand at the window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, "I 
see the star!" And often they cried out both together, knowing so 
well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such 
friends with it, that before lying down in their beds, they always 
looked out once again, to bid it good-night; and when they were 
turning round to sleep, they used to say, "God bless the star I" 

But while she was still very young, 0, very, very young, the 
sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer 
stand in the window at night; and then the child looked sadly out 
by himself, and when he saw the star, turned round and said to the 
patient, pale face on the bed, "I see the star!" and then a smile 



Ov> TKlASrinvS KKOM VWW IMJOSK WOHLP. 

>YOulil oomo upon tlio faoo, nml :i littJo Yvoak voioo usoil to say, 
•K>od Moss my brothor and tho sUrl" And so tlio time camo, all 
t\H> soon! Nvhon tho ohiKl looked out nlouo. and when thoiv was no 
faoo on tho hod; and whon Uioiv was a litilo gravo amonj:: tho 
;:ravos. not thoro hofoiv: and whon tho star niado loni: rays di^vn 
toward him. as ho saw it through his tears. 

Now. thoso niys woiv so bright, and thoy soonioil to niako suoh 
a shining way fivni earth to heaven, that when the ehild went to 
his solitiuy bod. he divanied about the star; and di-oamod tliiit, 
Iviug where he was. he saw a train ot" people taken up tliat spai'k- 
ling road by angels. 

And the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, wheiv 
many nune sueh aaigcls ^V!vitod to receive tJieiu. 

All these angels who woiv waiting turned their beauving oyos 
upon tho people who wen^ earned up into the star; and some oamo 
out from the long rows in which they stoini. and foil upon tiio 
jHvplo's nooks, ajid kissed t.houi toudevly, and went away with tliem 
down avenues of light, and weiv so happy in their company, that 
lying in his IhhI he wept for joy. 

But theiv wore many aaigels who did not go witJi them, and 
among them was one he knew. Tho patient face that once had lain 
ujKm the Ih\1 was glorified suid nuhant. but liis heart found out his 
sister among all tJie host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the enti-juioe of the st<\r, and 
sjud to the leader among those who had brought the people thither. 

"Is my bivther come?" 

And he smd, ''No," 

She A\-as turning hoi>efnlly away, when the child sta>etcheil out 
111;- arms, and critnl. 

■'0 sister. lam hoiv! Take me!" And then she turned her 
Ivanting eyes upon him juid it was night; aaui tho star was shin- 
ing into the i\x>m. making loT\g i-a_\-s down towanl him as lie saw 
it thnnigh his teai-s. 

Fi\>m that hour forth the child hx^ktnl out uik>u the star as on 



I'REASURES t'ROM THE PROSE WORLD. 20 

tho liomo he wji,h to ^o to, wli«n Ihh time .slionid c.oino; Jtiid lio 
tlion{Tlit that ho did not belong to the earth aloiio, ]mi to the Htar, 
t^)o, becauHC of liis sister'n angel gone before. 

There was a l)!il)y l)orn to bo a brother to tlie diild; and 
wliile he was so httle that ho never yet liad npolven a word, lie 
atrotched his tiny form out on his bed and died. 

Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the com- 
l)any of angels, nnd the train of people, and the rows of angels with 
their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader, 

"Is my brother come?" 

And he said, "Not that one, ])ut another." 

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, ho cried, 

"0, sister! I am here! Take me!" And she turned and 
smiled upon him, and the star was shining. 

Ho grew to be a young man and was busy at his books when 
an old servant came to him and said, 

"Thy motlier is no more. I ])ring her Ijlcssing on lier darling 
son!" 

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. 

Haid his sister's angel to the leader, 

"Is iny brother come?" 

And he said, 

"Thy mother!" 

A mighty cry of joy wont forth through all the stars, because 
the mother wii,s r(!iniii(!d to lujr two cliiJdren. And Ik; stretched out 
his arms and <'.ii(;d, "0 mother, sister, })rother, I am here! Take 
me!" And they answered him, "Not yet." And the star was 
shining. 

lie grew to Ijc a man whose hair was turning gray, and lur 
was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy witli grief, and witli 
his face l)edewed with tears, when the star opened once again. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader, 

"Is my l)roth(!r come?" 



80 TREASURES FROM THE rilOSE ^^•OKLD. 

And he sjiid, "Nay, but his miiiden daughter." 

And tlio mau who had beeu tlie child saw liis daughter, newly 
lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said, 

"My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is 
round my mother's neck, and at her feet is the baby of old time, 
and 1 can bear the parting from her, God be pr.iised!" 

And the star was shining. 

And tJius the child came to be an old man, and his once 
smootJi face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and 
his back was bent. And one night, as ho lay upon his bed, his 
children standing round, he cried, as ho had cried so long ago, 

"I see the star!" 

They wliispei-ed one another, "He is dying." 

And ho said, "I am. ^fy age is falhng from me like a gar- 
ment, and I move towaixi the star as a child. And 0, my Father, 
now I tliank tliee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear 
ones who await me!" 

And tlie star was sliining; and it shines upon his grave. 



Death of Little Jo. 

Jo is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they ai*e 
left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should 
come so far out of his way on accounts of sich as him. Mr. Sangsby, 
touched by the spectacle before him. immediately la%-s upon the 
table half-a-cro-vNii; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of 
wotmds. 

"And how do you lind yourself, my poor lad?" inquired the 
stAtioner, witJi his cough of s^nupathy. 

"I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," i-eturns Jo, "and don't wjuit 
for uotliiuk. I'm moiv cumfbler nor vou can't think, Mr. Sangsby. 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. n\ 

I'm wory sorry that I done it, l)iit I didn't go fur to do it, nir." 

Tlu! .stiitioncr softly lays down another half-crown, and asks 
him what it is that ho is so sorry for having dono. 

"Mr. Sangshy," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady 
as wos and yit as warn't the t'other lady, and none of 'cm never 
says nothing to me for having done it, on accounts of their heing 
ser good and luy having been s' nnfortnet. The lady come herself 
and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah, Jo I' she ses. 'We thouglit 
we'd lost you, Jol' she ses. And she sits down a smihn' so quiet, 
and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, 
she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I does, Mr. Sangshy. And 
Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. 
And Mr. Woodcot, ho come fur to give mo somethink for to en,se 
me, wot he's alius a doin' on day and night, and wen he comes 
a bendin' over me and a spoakiu' up so bold, I see his tears a fallin', 
Mr. Sangshy." 

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the 
table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infallible remedy will 
relieve his feelings. 

"Wot I was Ihinkin' on, Mr. Sangshy," proceeds Jo, "wos as 
you wos able to write very large, p'r'aps?" 

"Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer. 

"Uncommon, precious large, p'r'aps?" says Jo, witli eagerness. 

"Yes, my poor boy." 

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos thinkin' on, then, Mr. 
Sangshy, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, 
and couldn't bo moved no furder, whether you might be so good, 
p'r'aps, as towiite out, wery largo, so that any one could see it any- 
wheres, as that I was wery truly hearty sorry that I doiio it, and 
that I never went fur to do it; and that though I didn't know 
nothink at all, I know'd as Mr. Woodcot once cried over it, and was 
alius grieved over it, and that I hoped as' he'd be able to forgive 
me in his mind. If the writin' could be made to say it wery largo, 
he might." 



82 TREASUEES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 

"It shall say it, Jo; very large. " 

Jo laughs again. "Thaukoe, Mr. Saugshy. It's wery kind of 
yon, sir, and it makes me more cumfbler nor I wos afore." 

The meek little stationer, Avitli a broken and unfinished cough, 
slips tlmvn his fourth h:ilf-crown — he has never been so close to a 
case requiring so many, — and is fain to depart. And Jo and he 
upon this littJe earth shall meet no more. No more. 

(Anothrr S<ru<'. — Entrr Mr. Woodrourt.) 

"Well, Jo, what is the matter? Don't be frightened." 

"I thought," says Jo, who has started, and is looking round, "I 
thought I -was in Tom-All-Alone's agin. An't there nobody here 
but you, Mr. Woodcot?" 

"Nobody." 

"And I an't took back to Tom-All-Alone's, am I, sir?" 

"No." 

Jo closes his eyes, muttering, "I am wery thankful." 

After watching him closely a httle while, Allan puts his mouth 
very near his ear, and says to him in a low, distinct voice: "Jo, 
did you ever know a prayer?" 

"Never know'd nothink, sir." 

"Not so much as one short praj'er?" 

'*No, sir. Nothink at all. Mr. Chadbands he wos a prayin' 
wuust at IMr. Bangsby's, and I heerd him, but ho sounded as if he 
wos A speakin' to hissclf, and not to me. He prayed a lot, but I 
couldn't malce out nothink on it. Different times tliei-e wos other 
gen'l'men come down to Toni-AU-Alone's a prayin', but they all 
mostly sed as the t'other wuns prayed wrong, and all mostly sounded 
to be talkin' to theirselves, or a passin' blame on the t'others, and 
not a talkin' to us. We never know'd nothink. I never know'd 
what it wos all about." 

It takes him a long time to say tliis; and few but an experi- 
enced and attentive listener could hear, or, hearing, understand 
him. After a short relapse into sleep or stupor, he makes of a sud- 
den, a strong effort to get out of bed. 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 88 

"Stay, Jo, stay I What now?" 

"It's time for me to go to that there berryin'-ground, sir," he 
returns, witli a wild look. 

"Lie down, and tell mo. What burying ground, Jo?" 

"Where they laid him as wos wery good to me ; wery good to 
me, indeed, he wos. It's time for mo to go down to that there 
berryin'-ground, sir and ask to bo put along with him. I want to 
go iliere and bo berried. He used fur to sjiy to me, 'I am as j)0()r 
as you to-day, Jo,' he ses. I wants to tell him that I am as poor 
as him now, and have come there to be laid alqng with him." 

"By-and-by, Jo; by-and-by." 

"Ah! P'r'aps they wouldn't do it if I wjis to go myself, lint, 
wiU you promise to have me took there, sir, and laid along with 
him?" 

"I will, indeed." 

"Thankee, sirl Thankee, sir! They'U have to got the key 
of the gate afore they can take mo in, for it's alius locked. And 
there's a step there, as I used fur to clean with my broom. It's 
turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light acomin' ?" 

"It is coming fast, Jo." 

Fast. The cart is shaken all to pieces, and the rugged road is 
very near its end. 

"Jo, my poor fellow 1" 

"I hear you, sir, in the dark, but I'm a gropin' — a gropin' — let 
me catch hold of your hand." 

"Jo, can you say what I say?" 

''I'U say anytliink as you say, sir, for I knows it's good." 

"Our Father." 

" 'Our Father!' Yes, that's wery good, sir." 

"Which art in heaven." 

" 'Art in heaven !' Is the light a comin', sir?" 

"It is close at hand. 'Hallowed by thy name. ' " 



84 TREASURKR FROM THE PROSE WORLT>. 

"ll;ilU)\vrd - 1)0 — thy — iiiimol" • 

Tho light has come upon the henighted way. Dead. 

Doiid, your majesty. Dead, luy lords and gentlemen. Dead, 
right reverends and wrong reverends of every order. Dead, men 
and women born with heavenly compassion in your hearts. And 
dying thus around us every day. 



Mother's Vacant Chair. 

I go a httlo fartlier on in your house, and I find tho mother's 
chair. It is very apt to be a rocking chair. She had so many cares 
and troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers. I remember it 
well. It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, 
for I was the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. 
It made a creaking noise as it moved, but there was imisic in the 
sound. It was just higli enoixgh to allow lis children to put oiir 
heads into her lap. That was tlie bank where we deposited all our 
hui-ts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was I It was different 
from the father's chair — it was entirely different. Perhaps there was 
about this chair more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when 
Ave had done wrong. When we were wayward, fatlier scolded, but 
motlier cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the sick days of chil- 
dren other chairs could not keep awake; that chair always kept awake 
— kept easily awake. That chair knew all the old lullabies, and all 
tliose wordless songs whicli mothers sing to tlieir sick children — 
songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are 
combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many 
years. It may be set up in tlie loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly 
power yet. When at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the 
intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that said, "My son, 
why go in there?" and louder than the boisterous encore of the 
tlieater, a voice sajaug, "My son, what do you hei-e?" And when 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 85 

you went into iliu Louse of ,siii, ;i voice Hiiyhig, "Wliiit would your 
mother do if she knew you were here?" and you wore provoked at 
yourself, and you charged yourself with superstition and fanaticism, 
and your head got hot with your own i,houghts, and you went home, 
and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed tlian 
a voice said, "What, a prayerless pillow!" Man ! what is the matter? 
This! You arc too near your mother's rocking-chair! "Oh, pshaw!" 
you say, "there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from 
where I was bom — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk 
wliose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that; 
you are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh !" you say, 
"there can't be anything in that; that chair has been vacant a great 
while." 1 cannot help that. It is all the mightier for that; it is 
omni])otent, that vacant mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. 
It weeps. It carols. It mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. 
A young man went off and broke his mother's heart, and while he 
was away from home his mother died, and the telegraph l)rought the 
son, and he came into tlic room where she lay, and looked upon her 
face, and cried out, "0, mother, mother! what your life could not 
do your death shall effect. This moment I give my heart to God." 
And he kept his promise. Another victory for the vacant chair. 
With reference to your mother, the words of my text were fulfilled: 
"Thou shalt be missed because thy scat will be empty." 




{$(> TlUfiASUBES VUOM iUK ruosK WOUt.P. 



How Torn rv.w \ •■■ White-Tvashed His Fence, 

fl\v«u Sawyvv, l»»viujir ottouatsl l>ls solo jru(M\U»i\, .\mit JVUy. ts l>y W<s»t ston\ly 
AltKVtKvjx^to vl.-vuio \>\\u<sl\>\l 1>Y iH^liiv s«>t to vUltowswih tlio fvmv t» fr\>»>t of tlu> 

'IvMu ;»piH>!U\\l vnv tho s^idowiUk with rt buckot ot' whitowrtsh s«ui 
A Unijr-hamlUHl bruslv. Ho sun-xn-wl U»o ftuivv, uiul tUl jjhuhioss 
loft him, ami a vhvp moUuiohivlv sotthnl down ujkwi his 5«inrit. 
Thiitv vrtwls of Kvuxi tVaivn^ niuo fivt hi^vrh. Lifo to him stHniunl 
holKnv, j>.ud oxistomv Init u bimh^ix. l:>i^>;hing. ho dip|vtl his brusli 
mul j*{>jistHl it ahuis; tho to^vtuost ivlsuik; ivivat^nl tlio opoi-iuioii : did 
it n^uu; oinxxpiuW tlio insij»nitio<vut\vhitowi>shtHlstavrtlv with tho far- 
n^>ohiujj ootitiuont of mnvhitownsluxl foiiOi\ tuul srtt down on jv titv- 
bo\, disovnmt^Hl. 

Uo K^^vUi to think ixf tho f\a\ ho lirtd i\l;umoil for this drtv. tuid 
hiv>s sovjvws uwdtiivhtnl. Svhmi t)io fnv Kns would oinuo t.rip|ni\^ 
lUong on iUl sorts of dohoiovis oxjH\litions. uud thov wovdd malvO u 
wvrld i>f fuu of him for hrtvitijr t<^ work — tlio wry tliovight of it 
burnt him liko tiro. Ho g\^t out his worldly wvalth suul oxjunintnl 
it — bits of ti\vs, inarblos. and trasli : wiough to buy jui oxohiuvgv^ of 
m«rA,\ \u«ylH\ but not hsJf onou^iih to b\iy so i\uioh «s hjUf an hour 
of yn\tx> fii>\\lom. So ho n>tun\t\l his strjutornnl moans to liis 
IHvkot, iuid gavo up tho idt\'» of trying* to buy tlio Wy^. At this 
il;uk a\ul lu^iH^h^ss tuomont an insivinuion burst ujx\n him! 
Nothing h^ss thjui a gxvat, ma^nit\otvnt insjunuion. 

llo tvxxk up his hrusli ami wont trtuupiilly to w^>Tk. Inn 
T^ogx^rs hoYO in si>rhl, pivsontly — tho %vry K\v. of idl Kn-s. whi\<iO 
ridioulo ho had Uvn divadin^. Bon's giut was tlio hop-skip-and- 
juinjv~prvx>f or\ou^h that his lu^»r» w^»s lijrht and his aJutioijv»tii>ns 
hijrh. Ho was oatin^^r an ap^do, ai\d jtivinj* a Uxnjr, inohxlivnis 
wlux^p. at intorv^Us. t\\llowx\l by a dtvp-toiuHl di'ajj-don^r-donj::. 
diuJf-dv^MJ^do«y, — for ho w;>s ivrsivnatiui; a sioaniU»iU, As ho 



'I'llKAStlUI'.H h'llOM 'I'lll'l ruOHK WOltliD. }{? 

(Iruw lioat' 111) Hliickoiuul hixkhI, Look lilio iiiiddlo of Uio HLrooi, IoiumkI 
far over to HUirl)oa,r(l a,ii(l roiiiidcd l,o, poiidoi'ouHly, and wiUi Inhori- 
oiiH j)oiii)) and (jirdinnHLancc lor lio waH jxirHonal/inf^' tlio "Hif^ 
MiMHoiiii," and (•.onHid(ir(!(l Iniiiiicll l,o Iki drawiji}^ nine IVrl, of 
wiU/cr. ll(Mv;iM l)OiiJ,, and caitlnin, iind (!n|^inc-|jcllH coMihiiird, no 
ho liad to iiuiif^incs liiuuKjl' Hl.iuidin^^ on liiiH own Inirriciuic deck 
givinf^ tlu3 ordoiH ajid oxc-cul-in}^ (;li(!ni: 

"HiiOj) lirr, iiiil 'ring-a-linf,'-lin{^'I" Tlio iKiadwny liui idmoiil, 
oni, and lio dicw up nlowly l.oward Uio Hid(!walk. 

"Sln|) np io l)M,c.k ! Tin;.^ a lini-^-linj.^!" IIIh a.i'niH i-l.riU|.dil,onc(l 
and HtilTtuH^I down liin tiidcn. 

"H((l- licr l)!uk on Uio Hl.abhoard I TinR-a-liiiK-ling! dhow I 
cli-cJiow wow! dhowl" lliH ii}.^h(, Inunl, in(!n,nl,ini(), doncriliinf-^ 
HtaXoly circloH - for it, waH r()i)rt!HCiil,inf^ a forty-fool, whcsdh 

"Ij((1, her ;^o hiM'k on Uio la))hoa,rd I 'I'inf^-a-hni^-hnj-^I (Iliow- 
(!h-chow-chow !" 'I'hc Itfl, hjuid h('^^an (,0 d(!Hcrih« ciroh-H. 

"Slop iJio Hl,al)hoii,i'dI 'I'in».^-a-lin|.^ lin(.^! Sl.op iho liUthoard I 
(Jonio a,h(!ad on Uio Hdahhoard. Hl,op h(!r! I;(:l, your oiil,iiido l.iirii 
ovorHlowI 'rin{^-a-linf^-linf^l Cliow-owowl (\cX oiil, llmJ, hiiul 
hno. /y/w///, now! Conio out, wilJi your uprinj.^ hins whiiL'rc! 
yon aJioiil, l,h(!r(!! Tako a l,iii'n roinid UinJ, Hl.nnip wiUi Uk; hij^^lil, of 
il,I Sl;iiiid by Uial, mI,ii,;m!, now Id, her (/o! |)onii wilJi Uio onf^'iiio, 
Kirl Ting-a-iinf^-Jini-^! ,S7/'/. .' ,S/i'l,! ,S7/V, .'" (l.ryiiiK Uio ;^'aU{,'0- 
cockH.) 

'I'oni wcnl, oil whitowaHhinf? — paid no aU,t!nl,ion l,o Uio ntcain- 
hoiti,. Hon Hl/ar<3(l a, mornonl,, and Unsn iitiid : 

"lli-/y/'.' i/(ii('rc a HUnnp, ajn'l, yon?" 

No auHWor. Tom luirvoyod liiH laHl, toiidi wiUi iho oyo of an 
artiHi; Uion lio (.^avo hio hrimli aJioUior f^csnUo Hwcep, and niirv<!yod 
Uio nsHiiIt, aH hofon;. lU]t ranj-^od up alonf^nido of him. 'I'oiii'h 
moiiUi wiil.orod for Uio apiih;, liul, ho nl,iic.k l,o hin w(jrk. I'.cn iiiiid : 

"Hollo, old chap; yon got to work, ln!y?" 

'i'oni whoolod Huddcjiily, and Hiiid : 

"Why, it'H you, I5<!n; I warn't noticing." 



!J8 TUliASURKS FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

"Say, I'm p:oing iu a-swiuuning, I am. Don't you Avisli you 
could? But, of course, you'd druthor work, wouldn't you? 'Course 
you \vould !" 

Tom coutomplatod the boy a bit, and said: 

"Wluit do you call work?" 

"Why, iiin't tlutt work?" 

'Vom rosumod his wlutowashing, and answered, carelessly: 

'*\Vell, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't. All 1 know is, it suits 
Tom Sawyer." 

"Oh, come now, yon don't mean to let on that you like it?" 

"Ijike it? Well, I don't soo why I oughtn't to hke it? l>oes 
a boy 'fi^i'l a chance to Avhitowash a fence every day?" 

That put the thini:: in a new lii^'ht. r>en stoi)ped nibbliu;,' liis 
apple. Tom swept his brush danitily back and forth — stepped 
Uick to note the elTect — added a touch hero and there — criticised 
i\\o etTect aj^ain, Ren watching every move and getting more and 
more interested, nunc and more absorbed. Presently he said: 

"Say, Tom, let mr whitewash a litUe." 

Tom considered — was abmit to consent — but he altered his 
mind : 

"No, no, I reckon it wouldn't hardly do, Ihmi. You see, Aunt 
Polly's awful particular about tliis fence — right here on tJie street, 
ytni know— if it was tJie back fence I wouldn't mind, and s/w 
wouldn't. Yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to 
be done very careful ; I reckon tliero ain't one boy in a tJiousand, 
maybe two tluuisand. that can do it in the way it's got to be 
done." 

"No — is Uiat so? Oh, come, now, lemme just try, oidy just a 
litUe. I'd let ifou, if yiui was me, Tom." 

"Ben, I'd like to, honest Injin; but Aunt Polly -well. ,lim 
wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him. Sid wanted to do it, 
but she wouldn't let Sid. Now don't you see how I'm fixed? If 
you was to tackle tJiis fence and anything was to happen to it — " 

"Oh, shucks! I'll be just as careful. Now lemme try. Say — 
I'll give you tlie core of my apple." 



TREASURES FHOM THE PROSE WORLD. 89 

"Wdl, hero. No, Ben; uow don't; I'm afeured — " 

"I'll give you all of it." 

Tom gave up the IjriiBh with reluctance in liiH face, but alacrity 
in his heart. And while Ben worked and sweated in the sun, tlie 
retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, 
munched Iu'h apple, and })lanned the slaughter of more innocents. 
There was no lack of mat(;riii,l; boys hiii)pened along every little 
while; tliey came to jeer, but remained to whitewash. By the 
time Ben was fagged out, Tom had traded tlio next cIijuk;*; 
to Billy Fisher for a kite in good repair; and when Av.' played (jut, 
Johnny Miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it 
with; and so on, and so on, hour after hour. And when the 
middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor, poverty-stricken 
boy in the morning, Tom was literally rolling in wealth. He liad, 
beside the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews- 
haq), a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a 
key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass 
stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six. fire- 
crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog- 
coUar — but no dog, — the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange- 
peel, and a dilapidated old window sash. 

Tom had had a nice good idle time aU the while — plenty of 
company — and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it! If 
he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every 
boy in the village. 

He said to himself that it was not such a hollow world after 
all. He had discovered a great law of human action without know- 
ing it — namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, 
it is only necessary to make it difficult to attain. 

If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of 
this, he would now have comprehended tliat work consists of what- 
ever a body is obhged to do, and that play consists of whatever a 
Ijody is not obliged to do, and this would help him to understand 
why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is 
work, while roUing ten-pins or chmbing Mont Blanc is only amuse- 
ment. 



40 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 



T T 7 ASHINGTON lEVING was born in the city of New York, 
\l\ April 3, 1783, and he passed to the higher life on 
November 28, 1859. He was purely a self-made man, hav- 
ing received only a common-school education. He studied 
law for a time, but his chief studies were "Robinson Crusoe," 
colleetions of voyages, also Chaucer, Spenser and other 
English classics. 

Irving's literary record is as follows: — In 1802 he com- 
menced writing for the newspaper conducted by his brother. 
His next venture was a publication entitled "Salmagundi," 
conducted by himself and his brother William, and James K. 
Paulding. It was filled with satire upon the follies "of the 
day, and it became quite successful. Next followed his 
History of New York, probably the best sustained burlesque 
ever written. For two years he conducted the "Atlantic 
Magazine" in Philadelphia. His Sketch Book was partly 
made up of articles from the "Magazine." His Sketch Book 
was published in New York in 1818, and subsequently, in 
London. This work was at once accepted as classic and 
the author's reputation was placed upon a permanent basis ; 
it was considered a literar}'^ event. In 1822 Bracehridgc Hill, 
written in Paris, appeared in London. In 1824 appeared 
the Tales of a Traveller; 1828, History of the Life and Voy- 
ages of Christopher Columbus, followed by Voyages and Dis- 
coveries of the Companions of Columbus. While in Spain he col- 
lected the materials for Conquest of Grenada, The Alharnhra, 
Legends of the Conquest of Spain, and Mahomet and His 




WASHIN(rr:>N' IKVING. 



TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 41 

Successors. From his trip beyond the Mississippi came, 
A Tour oil the Prairies. This was followed by Astoria, The 
Adventures of Captain Bonneville, and a volume of miscel- 
lanies, entitled Wolfcrt's Roost. He also published the Life 
of Margaret Davidson, and his biography of Oliver Goldsmith. 
His last great work is his Life of Washington, in five volumes. 
The words Rip Van Winkle and Sleepy Hollow and Knicker- 
bocker are familiar to all. 

For pleasure and for material for his works, Irving 
traveled quite extensively. In 1804 he started on his tour 
through Europe. He visited Genoa, Sicily, Naples, Eome, 
Paris, Brussels, arriving finally at London. In 1814 he 
went to Europe the second time. He made a tour of the 
continent, and enjoyed a special literary companionship in 
London, He also traveled quite extensively in this country. 

Irving's civil record is brief but important. He served 
for a short time as aid-de-camp to Governor Tompkins in 
1814. He was commissioned, by Alexander H. Everett, 
minster to Spain, to make translations of the newly dis- 
covered papers in Madrid referring to Columbus. In 1829 
he was appointed secretary of legation to the American 
embassy in London. In 1842 he was appointed minister to 
Spain. 

In closing this sketch we quote from Underwood : 

"It is not difficult to assign Irving's place among our 
authors. Thackeray happily spoke of him as 'the first 
embassador whom the New World of Letters sent to the 
Old. ' In our lighter literature he is without a rival as an 
artist. He is equally happy in his delineations of scenery 
and charater ; he moves us to tears or to laughter at his 
pleasure. His works have all an admirable proportion; 
nothing necessary is omitted, and needless details are 



42 TBEASUllES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

avoided. IIo never fatigues us by learned antithesis, nor by 
the paralleHsni of proverbiiil grace, and picturesque etfect. 
The vivacity of his youth never wholly deserted him ; 
allhinigh he ceased writing humorous works, it served to 
aniuuito his graver histories, and to give them a charm which 
ilic mere annalist could not atiain. His life, on the whole, 
was fortiuiate ; his fame came in season for hini to enjoy it ; 
his works brought liim his bread, honestly earned, and not 
merely the moninnental stone. Other authors may perhaps 
oxcile n\ore of our wimdor or reverence, but Irving will bo 
riMuombcrod with delight and love. Irving's last years were 
spent at 'Suuuyside,' near Tarrytown, N. Y. He was never 
nuirried. Miss Matilda Hoffman, tlio lady io whom he was 
botri^fhod. having died at the age of eighteen, he remained 
faithful to her memory ; and her Bible, kept for so many 
years, was upon the table at his bedside when he died." 




TllEASUUIW l''U()M[ TIIK J'UOSK VVOIUil). 18 



The Grave. 

Oil, ilio gravo! tlio ^'nivol II, ImrioH ovoiy error, covcirn every 
(Icfoct, oxtirif^iiiHli(!S every reHoni,inent. From i(,H jieiieefiil ItoHoiu 
H))rinfjf none Imi loud re{,'rot,H and tondor recollection k. Who enn 
look down upon Uie {,'ravo oven of an enemy, and no(, iviA a coiu- 
piinctioiiH tltrob that lie wlionld ever luivc warred with the poor 
liaiidriii of earth that lieH niolderiiip^ lusfore hiiri? IJiii the ^'rave 
of tlios(! we ]ov<!d, — wliat a place for irHiditaiioii I There it Ih wo 
call ii|), ill ion;.' revi(!W, the whole hintory of virtiuj and f,'entlcneHH, 
and the iJioiiHiuid (!nd(!arnientH laviHluuI nj)on iih, lUniont nnlu'edcnl, 
in the daily int(!rcoiirHe of intima,cy; th(!re it iH tlnit we dwell upon 
the tendenicKH, the Holcnm, awful tondcirneHH of tlie parting Hccnc; 
the bed of dcsath, witli a,ll itH Htifled ^ncin, itH noiHCilcHH attendii-ntH, 
itH nnite, watchful ii,HHidiiiti(!H; the hist tcjHtinionieH of ex[)irin^' lov(!; 
the fcohlo, fluttering, thrilling — oh, liow thrilling! — proHHiire of tlu! 
hand; the faint, faltering accentH Htniggling in death to give on(! 
more assurance of affection ; the last fond look of tlie glii,/ing (^ye, 
turned upon us even from the threshold of existence I Ayv,, go to 
the grave of buried love and meditate I There settle the »,eeoiiiit 
with thy conscience for every piist benefit unrequited, evfjry j)aKt 
endeiirment unregardisd, of that dciparted luiing wlio ejui n(!ver, 
never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition. 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to tin; soul, 
or a furrow to the silvenul jjrow of an alTcictionate pii.rent, if tlioii 
!i,rt a husband, and luist (!V<!r ca,used the fond l)osom that vfiritured 
its whole liii,|)})inesH in thy arms to doubt one moment rjf thy kind- 
ness or thy truth, if thou ii,rt a friend, and liast aver wronged in 
thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that gen(!roiisly <;on(id(!d in thef;. 
if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to ihnt 
true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy f(;et, then Ixi 
sure that every unkind locjk, every ungracious word, every ungentle 



44 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

action, will coiuo thronsriiii^ baok npou tliy lucinory. iui«l kuockiug 
iK^lotuUy lit. thy soul; thou bo siiro that thou wiJt lio llo\\^l, sor- 
lowiiii; luul ro{>ont;nit on tho gravo, and utter the unheard groan, 
ami pour tho una\!iihui^ toar, luoro iloop, more bittor because 
unheard and unavjuliuij. 



Rural Life in England. 

The strauj^or who would form a correct opinion of tJie English 
character umst not confine his observations to the metropolis, lie 
nmst go fin-th into the country; lie must sojourn in villages and 
hamlets; he must visit castJes, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he 
must wander through parks and gardens, along hedges and green 
lanes; he must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and 
fairs, and i^thor rural fostiviils, and cope with the people in sill tlieir 
conditions, and !iU their habits and humors. 

Tn some countries, the large cities absmb ilio wealth and fashitni 
of the nation; they are tho only tixod alnnlos of elegant and intelli- 
gent society, and tho country is inhabited ahnost ontiivly by boorish 
peasantry. In I'ngland. on tho contrary, tho nu^tropolis is a moi^e 
gathering-place, or goneraJ rende7;vous. of the ]H^lite cbisses, Avhere 
they devote a snuill pm'tion of the year to a hurry of gayety and 
dissipation, and having indiilged this carnival, return again to tJie 
appairntly nu^re congenial habits of rural life. The various onlers 
of society aiv therefore ditTused over tho whole surface of the king- 
dotu,and the nmst irtiivd neighborhoods afford specimens of the 
ditTeivnt nuiks. 

Tlu^ English, in fact, a»v strongly gifted with the rural feeling. 
They possess a quick sensibdity to the beauties of natuiv. and a 
keen ivlish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This 
passion seems inhoront in thorn. F.von the inhabitants of cities, 
born }uad brought up tuni"vug brick wivJJs ajid bustling stxeets, ent^r 



TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 4/J 

with facility into nirul haljitH ;i,m(1 evince a turn for rural o(x;uj)a- 
tioii. TIk! in<!r(;}iant liaH IiIh Hiiug retreat in the vicinity of tlio 
TiifiropoliH, wliore Ik; often dinplayH aH much pride and zeiij in tlie 
c-uitJvii.tion of liJH flower-{^'iu-d(!ii luid ilie ni!i,tiiring of liin fniil,H aH 
lie does in the conduct of liin InisincsH and tin; HUCceHa of liin (;oin- 
niercial enteriirises. Kwv.n tho.se Ichh fortunate individualH wlio 
are doomed to pasH their livcH in tlio midst of din and tniffic, con- 
trive to have something that sliall remind tlicni of the green aspect 
of nature. In the most dark and dingy (|iiajterri of tlio city, the 
drawing-room window reHemhlciS, frequently, a hank of flowers; 
every spot capiihie of v(!g(!tii,tion has its grass plot and iiower-hed 
and every square; its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste and 
gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the KngliHlinian only in town are apt to form 
an unfavoralile opinion of his social chani,(;t(!r. lie is either 
ahsorhed in husiness or distracted by tin; thousand engagements 
that dissipate time, thought and feeling, in this huge uHjtropolis; 
he has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and ahstraction. 
Wherever he happens to he he is on the j)oint of going sonuiwherc 
else; at tlu; moment he is talking on one subject his mind is wan- 
dering to iuiother; and while paying a frii^ndly visit, he is calcula- 
ting how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted 
to the inorning. An immense metropohs like London is calculated 
to make men seliish jind uninteresting. ,In their casual and tnui- 
sient meetings, they cjin hut deal hrifi/Iy in common places. They 
pres(!nt hut the cold superfices of character — its rich and genial 
quahties have no time to he warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country thii,t the l^lnglislirnan gives scope to his 
naturid feelings. He hreaks loose gla.Jly from the cold fomialitjes 
and negative civiliti(H of town ; throws off his hahits of shy reserve, 
and h(;comes joyous luid freo he.-irted. Ife manages to colle-ct around 
him all the convenienc(!S luid elegancies of polite life, luid to hiinish 
its restraint. His country seat abounds with every requisite, either 
for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. 
Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of 



40 TREASURES PROM 11 IK riU)SK WO HI. P. 

Jill kiiuls. ;iro at liaiul. Ilo puts no roustniint iMtluM" upon his 
guests or liinisi'lt'. hut in tln> tnio s]Mrit oi hos|Mt!ility providos tho 
niOiUis i>l' tMijoynu'iil, aiul K>avt>s i>von' owv to paitako lU'v'i'nliiit:; 
to his iiu'liuutunt. 

Tho tiiisto of thi' l''n<rlish in the I'ultivaliou oi land, ami in wliat 
is oa.llod lauilsoapo jranKMiin;;', is unrivaK'il. 'I'hov luivo stiulioil 
natmo iuttMitly, anil tlisnnor an o\(Husito sonso of hor boautiful 
forms and liarmiunons combinations. 'I'hoso oluirms. whioh in 
tUhor i"iMnitru\s slio lavislu^s in wild solitmU^s, iiiv lioro asscmbK^d 
n>HMd tho h.'units of tlomost\o lifo. Thoy sihmu to tia\(> o.-iuj^ht hor 
ooy and fnrtivi^ jrlancos, anvl spread (bom. lilvi^ witi'boiy. about tlunr 
Ywvxd abodos. 

Notbiu;^ o;ui bo moiv imposiuj;' (ban (bo maj^niticonco oi 
Knglish park sconovy. \'ast la\vt\s tluit oxtond hko shoots of vivid 
!4[ivon. wiih horo and thoiv olumps of sTijrsnitio troths, hoapiujr up 
riob pdos of foliajr**. Tbo solomn pom[i of !n"ovt>s ;uul woodlaiul 
sriailos, \vit.li iho door tUH>piu!A' in silent hords uoross tlioin; tho haro. 
hounding tiway to tho omort; or tbo pheasant, suddenly burstiuj:; 
upiMi (be winj-T. I'be bnH>k. (atijrbt to wiml in the most natunil 
nioamU'rin.'^s. or expaml into a glassy lake— the se(|uesteivd pool, 
tvtlootiug the tpuvoring tives. with the yellow leaf slot^ping on its 
lu^som. and the trout rvvimin>r fearlessly ahout its limpid waters; 
while soine rustio temple i>r sylvan statue, gnnvn giveii aiul d.ark 
with ajTO. gives }\n air of elassie sanet.ity to the seelusiiMi. These 
are but a f\>w of the features v^f park scenery: but what most 
ilebghts nu\ is tho eivative t,alent with whieh the I'nglish ileoonite 
(he unosteuhitious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, 
the most impn^uising atid seauty portion of land, in the haj\ds of 
an Knglishmati of taste, beeomes a little paradise. With a nieely 
diserimiuat.ing eye he seizes at imee upon its oapahilities. and pio- 
tuu^s in his n\ind the fututx* lamlseape. The sterile spot givws in- 
to loveliness under his hand; and yet the openuions of art vvhieli 
pixnlnoe the etYeot aiv seaively to Iv pereeived. The eherisliing ajul 
(i-ainiug of son\e tives; (he eaut.ious priming of others; the niee 
distribution of lUnvers and pl.'ints of tender aiul gmoeful foliagi^; tJio 



TREASUREH FIIOM TIIM IMIOMH WORLD. 47 

inirodnctiou of 11, khhui Hlopo of vcslvol. l.iirf; Uio piutiiil opouiiif,' to 
a poop of l)lno diHiiinco, or Hilvcr f^'hinm of wntcr; iiJl Uioho uro iiuiii- 
iif^od wit.li II (1(^lic,iil,o (,ii,c,(,, M; proviiiliiij.^ yi-i (\\uvi ii,HHiiliii(,y, ]'\\n) ilio 
inii|fic, loiicliiiij^'H vviUi vvliicJi ii, ])ii,iiil,('r (iiiiHiicH ii|) n UivotMc, |)ic,l,iii-((. 
The roHidouco of |)((»|il(! of forl.niKi luid re rnicmcul, in l.lio cotinl.ry 
hiiH dilTiiHCid a dcf^'icso of IhhUi and (!l('j^iuic(! iti niral economy iJial, 
doHoondw (.0 Uio IowchL daHH. Tlic v(!iy lahoicr, wiUi IiIh Uial.clicd 
cotfcago and narrow hH]) of (M-ornid, iiJJcndH (,o l,licir (!nil)cllinlinicnl,. 
Tlio trim liodj,'o, tho {^riiHH-piot licfons tho do(jr, tlio littlo (lower Insd 
hordorod with Hnuf? hox, tho woodhino traincid up n^iuwHi, tlio wall, 
and lianf^'iti;,' itH hioHHoiiiH ahout tho lattieo, tho pot of iloworw in tho 
window, tho holly providontiaily piiuitod a))ont tho houHO, to choat 
Winter of itH drcarinoHH, and throw in a Homhlanco of (^'r<!Oii Kurnmor 
to cheer the CireHidc!; all thcHo Ix^Hpeak th(i inllii(!nc(! of tiiHto, llow- 
in;^' down from hif.di KoiirccH and pcirviulin;^ th(! lowtiHt hsvidn of tho 
jiiililic nnnd. If evc^r lovo, UH i)OotH Hiof^, (leli}.';ht to vinit a cottaf(0, 
it nnist he the cottii,(.(e of lui Kn/^diHli peaHiiiit. 

'V\\(i fondn(!HH foi- riind life ii-mon;.^ the lii;dier cIii,hh(!H of tho 
Mn(dih;li linn liiid a }.^reii,t luid n;iliitiiry elTect upon tli<i nii-tiomd cliar- 
acter. I do not know a liner iii,ce of men than the Mn;^linh jMintle- 
ni(!n. IriHteiuI of the Hoftn(!HH and (!Heminii,cy which cliarii,ct<!riz(!H 
the men of ninii in most coimtrieH, they exliihit ii, iniion of elef^MiuM) 
and Htr(!n},'th, a rohiiHtncHH of frame;, and freHhn(!HH of complexion, 
whicli T lun inclined to attrihnte to their livin;^' ho imich in the ojxin 
air, luid piirHuint^ ho oaj^'tsrly tho invif^'oratinf^' roorcsiLtionM of the 
country. Thcso hardy (!X(!r<;iHOH produce alHo a luialthfid tone of 
inind and HpiritH, and arnarilinoHHand Hirnplicity of iruuinorH, which 
(;ven tli(i follicH and dinnipatiofiH of tin; town cannot eanily perv(!rt, 
ami can iiovor ontirely dcHtroy. In tho country, too, the difhinint 
orders of Bociety Hccrn to ai)proach itiore fnuily, to he more dispoHod 
to hlend and op(!ni,to favoral)ly ii|>on each otlusr. The diHtinctionH 
lj(!tw(!(;n tiKun do not apptijir to Ix; ho niii,rl<ed arid impaHnihle h,h in 
tlio citioH. 'J'he mii,nn(!rin which property Iuih \u:vai diHtrihnted into 
Hrriall entatfiH iuid hu-mn Iuih eHt;i,hliHhed a rci^'ular {^riulii,tion from 
tho nobleman, tlirotij^'h tho olaHHOH of gentry, wrnall landed propri- 



■18 TREASURES F\iOU THE PROSE WORLD. 

otins jiuil substantial fiirmors, ilinvii to (ho laboring poasontiy; ami 
-svliilo il, has tlms haiulod iho oxtroiucs of society togctlior, has 
iiifnsod into each intoruiodiato rank a spirit of indopciuloncc. This, 
it unist ho oonfossoil, is not so univorsally tho case at proseut as it 
was forniorly; tho larger ostatos having, in late years of distress, 
ahsorhed tho smaller, and, in some parts of tho country, almost 
annihihitod tho sturdy rai-o oi small farmers. These, liowever, I 
heheve, are but easnal breaks in the general system I liavo men- 
lioued. 

In rural oeeuj>ation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
loads a man forth among seenes o( natural grandeur and beauty; 
it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated uihmi by 
the purest and most elevating of external influences. Snob a man 
may be simple and rougli, but he oannot bo vulgar. Tho man of 
n^linenuMit, therefore, linds nothing revolting in an interoourso Avitli 
tlie lower ordeis of rural life, as ho does when ho casually mingles 
with the lower orders of cities, llo lays aside his ilistanco and 
ivsorvo, and is glad to waivo tho distinctions of rank and to enter 
into tho honest, heartfelt enjoyment of connnon life. Indeed, the 
very amusonuMits of tJio country bring men more ami more together, 
and the somul of luunid and horn blond all feelings into hannony. 
I believe this is one groat reason why the nobility and gentry are 
nuMo ]H^pular anuMig the inferior orders in England than they are 
in any other comit ry; and why the latter liavo eudui-ed so many 
excessive pressures and oxtivmities, without repining more gener- 
ally at the unoipial distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also he 
attributed tho rural fivling that runs through British literature; 
the fivtpientuse of illustrations fnnu rural life — tlioso incomparable 
descriptions of uatuix^ which abound in the British poets, tliat have 
continued down fivm "The Flower and tho Loaf," of Chaucer, and 
h.ivo brought into our closets all the freshness ami fnignmce of tho 
dewy landscape. The pastonil writei-s of other countaies appear as 
if they liad paid natuiv an occasional ^^sit, aaid become acquaiut<>d 
with her general charms; but Uio British poets have lived and 



'rnEAHUREH J''ItOM TflK J'ltOHK WOllLU. 49 

rovolod wiUi li(;r; ilicy liiivi! wcjocd lior in lur uioHt Hocrci hauntrt; 
they liii,v(j watched lior minutcBt capricoH. A Hjiray coiild not 
tr(:iiil)]() in "tlio Ijroc/o, a loaf could not x'UHtlc to tho ^^roufid, ;i 
diamond drop could not j>attcr in tlio Htroain, a friif^rancc could not 
exhale from tlio linmbl(3 violet, nor a diiiny nnfold its crimson tintu 
to ilie Tnorninj.;, hut it liaH l)(!en noticed by th(!H(! imf)aHHioned and 
delicate o])H(;rv(!rH, and wrouf-jht up iiito Home Ixjautiful tnorality. 

The elleet of thin devotion of elef^jint mindH to runil oc(;uj)ationH 
haH Ijeen wonderful on the face of the country. A ^^reat [tart of 
the inland iw level, and would he monotonouH w(;re it /lot for the 
charms of culture; hut it is Htadded and gemmed, as it were, with 
caHtlcH and palaces, and embroidered with parks and {,'ardenH. Jt 
dooH not aljound in f.^ra)id and sublime prospects, but rather in little 
home Hceries of rural repose and slieltered quiet. ]'jvery antique 
farm-house and moss-j^rown cottaf^e is a picture; and as the roads 
are contirmally winding, and the view is shut in by groves and 
hedges, the eye is delighted by a wjntinual Buccession of small land- 
scapes of captivatiiig l(;veliness. 

The great chann, however, of pjnglish scenery in the moral 
f(;e]ing that Hf!<;mH tr) j)ervade it. It is associated in the mind witli 
ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, we-ll-established princi})leH, of 
hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be tbe 
growth of ages of regidar and peaceful existenw;. Tbe old church 
of remot(! achitecture, with its low, massive portal, its Gothic tower, 
ita windows rich with tracery and painted glass, its stately monu- 
ments of warriors and worthies of the (dden time, ancestors of the 
present lords of the soil, its tombstones, recording successive gene- 
rations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow the same 
fields and kneel at the same altar. The parsonage, a quiijnt, 
irregidar pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in tlie 
taste of various ages and occupants; the stile and foot-f)ath leading 
from the churchyard across pleasant fields and along sliady hedg(;- 
rows, according to an iramemorable right of way; the neighboring 
village witli its venerable cottages, its pu})lic green, slieltered by 
trees under which the forefathers of the present race have sported; 
4 



50 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

tlio antique family mansion, staniling apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down Avith a protecting air on the surrounding 
scene, — all these common features of English landscape evince a 
calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of home- 
bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touch- 
ingly for the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight on a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peas- 
antry in their best finery, with ruddy faces and modest cheerful- 
ness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it 
is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about 
their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts 
and embellishments which their own hands have spread around 
them. 



Our Revolutionary Fathers. 

[The following aiUlross to our Revolutionary Fatliora, we take from "Webster's 
"masterpiece as a deciicatorv orator;" an iiiiilress deliveroil at the laying of the 
I'orner-stono of the Hunker Hill Monument, at Chai-lestown, Mass., June 17, 1825.] 

Venerable men! you have come down to xis from a former 
generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your lives 
that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you 
stood fifty years ago this very hour, with your brothers and your 
neighbors, shoulder to shoulder in the strife of your country. 
Behold, how altered 1 The same heavens are indeed over your 
heads, the same ocean rolls at yonr feet, but all else ho^v^ changed I 
\ou hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes 
of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The groimd 
strewed with the dead and the dying, tlie impetuous charge, the 
steady and successful repulse, the loud CiiU to repeated assault, the 
summoning of all that is manly to repeated resistance, a thousand 
bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 51 

terror there may be in war and deaili,-all these you have wit- 
nessed, but you witness them no more. All is i^eace. The heights 
of yonder metropolis, its towers and roofs, which you then saw 
filled with wives and children and countrymen in distress and 
terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the 
combat, have presented you to-day with the' sight of its whole 
happy popidation, come out to welcome and greet you with an uni- 
versal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a feHcity of position appro- 
priately lying at the foot of this mount, and seeming fondly to 
chng around it, arc not means of annoyance to you, but your 
country's own means of distinction and defense. AU is peace,' and 
God has granted you this sight of your country's happiness ere you 
slumber forever in the grave. He has aUowed you to behold and 
to partake the reward of your patriotic toils, and he has aHowed 
us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name 
of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the 
name of hberty, to thank you ! 

But, alas! you are not aU here! Time and the sword have 
thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Bead, 
Pomeroy, Bridge! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken 
band! You are gathered to your fathers, and hve only to your 
country in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. 
But let us not too much grieve that you have met the common fate 
of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work 
had been nobly and successfuUy accomplished. You lived to see 
your country's independence established and to sheathe your swords 
from war. On the hght of Hberty you saw arise the hght of peace, 
like 

"Another morn. 
Risen on mid-noon;" 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. 

But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! 
Him! the premature victim of his own seh-devoting heart! Him! 
the head of our civH councils, and the destined leader of our mili- 
tary bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquenchable 



52 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

firo of hiri Dwu spirit! Ilim! cut off by Providence in the hour of 
overwhelming anxiety und thick gloom, falling ere he saw tlie star 
of his country rise, pouring out his generous blood like water, 
before he knew whether it would fertilize a land of freedom or of 
bondage! IIow shall I struggle with the emotions that stitie the 
utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perisli, but thine 
shjill endure ! This monument may molder away, the sohd ground 
it rests upon may sink down to a level witli tlie sea, but thy 
memory shall not fail ! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be 
found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its 
aspirations shall be to claim kindred with tliy spirit! 

But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us to 
confine our thoughts or our sjaupathies to those fearless spirits who 
hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated spot. We have the 
happiness to rejoice here in tJie presence of a most worthy repi*e- 
sentation of the survivors of the whole Revolutionary Army. 

Veterans! yoxi are the remnant of many a well-fought field. 
You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, 
from York town, Camden, Bennington and Saratoga. Veterans of 
half a century ! when in your youthful days you put everything at 
hazard in your country's cause, good as that cause was, and san- 
guine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward 
to an hour like this ! At a period to which you could not reason- 
ably have expected to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity 
such as you could never have foreseen, you are now met here to 
enjoy the fellowship of old soldiers and to receive the overflowing 
of an universal gratitude. 

But ycnu- agitated coimtenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a 
tumult of contonchng feelings rushes upon you. The images of tlie 
dead, as well as the persons of the living, throng to your embraces. 
The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father 
of all mercies smile upon your dechning years and bless tliem! 
And when you shall here have exchanged your embraces, when yoii 
slu\ll once more have pressed the hands which have been so often 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 53 

extended to give succor in adversity, or grasped in the exultation of 
victory, then look abroad into this lovely land which your young 
valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is filled; yea° 
look abroad in the whole earth and see what a name you have con- 
tributed to give to your country, and what a praise you have added 
to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which 
beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind! 

[Here follow a few remarks in which Mr. Webster refers to the effects of the 
battle of June 17th and its Impression upon those who were about to engage in the 
Htriiggle for equal rights. He sees the colonists standing together and ho expresses 
the hope that tills feeling will remain with them forever: "One cause, one country 
one heart. "J Mr. Webster then continues as follows : 

Information of these events, circulating through Europe, at 
length reached the ears of one who now hears me.* He has not 
forgotten the emotion which the fame of Bunker Hill and the name 
of Warren excited in his youthful breast. 

Sir, we are assembled to commemorate the establishment of 
great public principles of hbcrty, and to do honor to the distin- 
guished dead. The occasion is too severe for eulogy to the living. 
But, sir, your interesting relation to this country, tlie pecuhar cir- 
cumstances which surround you and surround us, call on me to 
express the happiness which we derive from your presence and aid 
in this solemn commemoration. 

Fortunate, fortunate man ! with what measure of devotion will 
you not thank God for the circumstances of your extraordinary 
hfel You are connected with both hemispheres, and with two 
generations. Heaven saw fit to ordain that the electric spark of 
lil)erty should be conducted, through you, from the New Worid to 
the Old; and, we who are now here to perform this duty of patriot- 
ism have all of us long ago received it in charge from our fathers 
to cherish your name and your virtues. You will account it an 
instance of your good fortune, sir, that you crossed the seas to visit us 
at a time which enables you to be present at this solemnity. You now 
behold the field, the renown of which reached you in the heart of 

♦General Lafayette. 



54 TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

France, and caused a thrill in your ardent bosom. You see the 
lines of the httle redoubt thrown up by the incredible diligence of 
Prescott; defended, to the last extremity, by his lion-hearted valor; 
and, within which, the corner-stone of our monument has now 
taken its position. You see where Warren feU, and where Parker, 
Gardner, McCleary, Moore, and other early patriots fell with him. 
Those who survived that day, and whose hves have been prolonged 
to the present hour, are now around you. Some of them you liiive 
known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they now stretch 
forth their feeble arms to embrace you. Behold ! they raise their 
trembhng voices to invoke the blessing of God on you and yours 
forever. 

Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation of this edifice. 
I'^ou have heard us rehearse, with our feeble commendation, the 
names of departed patriots. Sir, monuments and eulogy belong to 
the dead. We give them this day to Warren and his associates. 
On other occasions, they have been given to your more immediate 
companions in arms, to Washington, to Greene, to Gates, Sulhvan, 
and Lincoln. Sir, we have become reluctant to grant these, oav 
highest and last honors ; further : we would gladly hold them yet 
back from the httle remnant of that immortal band. Serus in 
crelum redeas. Illustrious as are your merits, yet far. Oh, very far 
distant be the day, when any inscription shall bear your name, or 
any tongue pronounce its eulogy. 




TEEASUEES EEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 55 



Happiness. 

She is deceitful as the calm that precedes the hurricane, smooth 
as the -water on the verge of the cataract, and beautiful as the rain- 
bow, that smihug daughter of the storm ; but, hke the mirage in 
the desert, she tantahzes us with a delusion that distance creates 
and thai contiguity destroys. Yet, when unsought, she is often 
found, and when unexpected, often obtained ; while those who seek 
for her the most dihgently fail the most, because they seek her 
where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; 
yCffisar, in dominion; — the first found disgrace, the second disgust, 
the last ingratitude, and each destruction. To some she is more 
kind, but not less cruel; she hands them her cup and they drink 
even to stupefaction, until they doubt whether they are men, with 
Phihp, or dream that they are gods, with Alexander. On some 
she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than 
an Itahan sun ; but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, 
and by one short caress to embitter the pangs of separation. Yet 
is she, by universal homage and consent, a queen; and the pas- 
sions are the vassal lords that crowd her court, await her mandate, 
and move at her control. But, hke other mighty sovereigns, she is 
so surrounded by her envoys, her officers, and her ministers of 
state, that it is extremely difficult to be admitted to her presence 
chamber, or to have any immediate communication with herself. 
Ambition, avarice, love, revenge, all these seek her, and her alone; 
alas ! they are neither presented to her nor will she come to them. 
She dispatches, however, her envoys unto them, — mean and poor 
representatives of their queen. To ambition, she sends power; to 
avarice, wealth; to love, jealousy; to revenge, remorse; alas! what 
are these, but so many other names for vexation or disappoint- 
ment? Neither is she to be won by flatteries or by bribes — she is to 
be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by 



66 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

paying !iuy particular court to herself. Those tliat conquer her 
adversaries will liud tliat they need uot go to her, for she wiT come 
uuto tliem. None bid so high for her as kings ; few are more ^^•ill- 
iug, none are more able to purcliase her alhaiice at th? fullest 
price. But she has no more respect for kings than for th^ir sub- 
jects : she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by 
sending to tlieir palaces all her equipage, her pomp, luid her train; 
but she comes uot herself. What detains her? She is traveling 
incoiDiito to keep a private appointment viixh couteutmeut and to 
partake of a iliuuer of herbs in a cottage. 



The Music of Child Laughter. 

The laugh of a child will malce the holiest day more sacred 
still. Strike with hand of tire, weird musician, thy hixrp strung 
with Apollo's golden hair! FiU the vast cathedral aisles Anth sym- 
phonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys! Blow, 
bugle, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonht 
waves, charming the wandering lovers on the vdne-clad hills; but 
know your sweetest stitiins are ihscord aJlcompaivd with cliililhood's 
happy laugh — the laugh that tills the eyes witli hght and dimples 
every cheek with joy. Oh. rippling river of laughter, thou art the 
blessed boundary hue between the beast and man, and every way- 
ward wave of thine doth drown some fi-etful fiend of CAre. 








YliTOU lUlUl. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 67 



VICTOR HUGO. 



VICTOR HUGO was born at Besancon, on the 26th of Feb- 
ruary, 1802. His father, General Hugo, distinguished 
himself in the first French Revolution, under Napoleon. His 
mother was of the old royalist Vendean stock. Thus we 
find that Victor Hugo came from a good family. He 
received an excellent classical education in France, and 
afterward spent a year in Spain, in a school devoted to the 
sons of nobles. At the age of fourteen, Victor Hugo dis- 
tinguished himself in the production of a tragedy called 
Irtamene, and two lyric pieces of excellent qualities. 

Besides other remarkable works, he produced in 1822 a 
volume of Odes et Ballades, in which, although the old classic 
form was not quite thrown aside, may be discovered traces 
of that romantic spirit which became the prevailing charac- 
teristic of Victor Hugo's writings. This volume announced 
the poet and author in all the strength, richness, and bril- 
liancy of his genius. It raised Victor at once to the highest 
rank of modern poets, a position which he has since main- 
tained. 

His romance, Notre Dame de Paris, in which he dis- 
played treasures of style, of imagination, of antiquarian 
knowledge, and great powers of description, raised him to 
the very foremost rank of romancers. In addition to the 
wonderful powers of description, Victor Hugo's writings 
possess a charm and sonority of language, and a remarkable 



68 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

brilliancy of fancy which make his style very picturesque 
and attractive. 

In the Revolution of 1830, which drove Charles X from 
his throne, Hugo Avas on the side of the Revolution. When 
Louis Philippe was on the throne, he raised Victor Hugo to 
the peerage. When the monarchy was at an end, Hugo was 
with the Republic, and received the high compliment of being 
sent to the Assembly as a representative of the city of Paris. 
In 1851 Hugo opposed the change ia which Louis Napoleon 
established the throne again in France. For his opposition 
he was obliged to leave his native land and live in exile. 
He firmly refused to compromise himself and return to 
France under the rule of Louis Napoleon. During the 
greater portion of his absence from his own country he occu- 
pied Hauteville House, a pretty residence with a charming 
garden, standing on the high ground over St. Peter's Port. 
The house belonged to the Queen of England. In speaking 
of the matter, Hugo once said : "My position is somewhat 
anomalous. I am a republican, and also a peer of France ; 
a Frenchman in exile, who is the tenant of a house held by 
the Queen of England as Duchess of Normandy. " 

While in exile Hugo wrote quite extensively both in prose 
and poetry. His Lcs Miserables is sufficient to crown his emi- 
nent literary career, and, indeed, it is enough glory for one 
man to have given birth to what may be considered the 
greatest w^ork of the imagination which the century has pro- 
duced. 

Upon the overthrow of Louis Napoleon in the war with 
Prussia, and the consequent return of France to a Republic, 
Victor Hugo returned to his native land. It was a happy 
day both to him and his countrymen when the long spell of 
exile was broken and he returned to his ovai loved France. 



TREASUKEB I'liOM THE PKoaE WOKLD. 59 



A Paradise on Earth, 

OR, 

The Blind Bishop and His Sister. 

[The following charming selection is taken from Les Miserahles. It is written 
In remembrance of a blind bishop who died in 1821, at the age of eighty-two. He 
liad been prominent in the affairs of his country, and in his old age was satisticd to 
be blind, as his sister was by his side.] 

Let US say, parenthetically, that to he blind and to he loved, is 
one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this 
earth, where nothing is perfect. To have continually at your side 
a wife, a sister or a daughter, a charming being, who is there 
because you have need of her, and because she cannot do without 
you; to know yourself indispensable to a woman who is necessary 
to you; to be able constantly to gauge her affection by the amount 
of her presence which she gives you, and to say to yourself: "She 
devotes all her time to me because I possess her entire heart;" to 
see her thoughts in default of her face ; to prove the fidelity of a 
being in the eclipse of the world; to catch the rustling of a dress 
like the soimd of wings; to hear her come and go, leave the room, 
return, talk, sing, and then to dream that you are the center of\ 
those steps, those words, those songs; to manifest at every moment 
your own attraction, and to feel yourself powerful in proportion to 
your weakness ; to become in darkness and through darkness the 
planet round which this angel gravitates — but fcAV felicities equal 
this. The supreme happiness of life is the conviction of being 
loved for yourself, or more correctly speaking, loved in spite of 
yourself; and this conviction the blind man has. In this distress 
to be served is to be caressed. Does he want for anything? No. 
When you possess love, you have not lost the light. And what a 
love ! a love entirely made of virtues. There is no blindness where 
there is certainty; the groping soul seeks a soul and finds it, and 



('►0 ■I'ni'.AsiUvKS I'KoiM I'm: n;()si': would. 

Uiia fond luul trioil isoul is Moiuiui. A Imnil sn])iK)il.H yoii, it isliors; 
a month tonclies your forehead, it, is hers; you hoar a lu-cathiiifjc 
close to you, it is sho. 

To havo oviu'ythiiiij; sho lias, from lior worship to hor i>ily, to 
l>o lun'or led, ti> havo this j!;oiitl(i woaknoss lo sncoor you, to \vi\n 
on this unhondiiiijf rood, to touoli providonoo AviUi hor hands, and 
ho ahlo to tako hor in your a,ruis — oh I Avhat rapture this is! Tho 
hoiui. Uiat obscure celoatial flower, hoj^ins to oxpaiid niystoriously, 
II 11 d you would not exchange this sluulow for all tho lijjjhtl Tho 
aiiifol soul is thus necessarily thoro; if sho <»o away, it is to return; 
she disappears like a dreaiii, and reappears like a reality. You fool 
hoat approadiiufjf you, it is she. You ovortlow with seronity, 
oostacy, and gayety; you are a sunhojiui in tho ni<:;l\t. And tluMi 
tho thousand little attentions, tlie not.hini:;s which are so enormous 
in tliis vacxiuml Tho most iuelTablo accents of tlio humun voice 
employed to lull you, and takiuj? fJie place of tho vaiiishtHJ miivorso! 
You are curossod with tlu^ soul; you soo iu)thini!;, hut you fool your- 
self adored ; it is a paraihse of darkness. 



Napoleon Buonaparte 

f'Dio solwtlou j;lvou boU>w oci-uvs In ii couvorsat lim botwocn two Fvonohmen. 
Olio, ft Koi'ul'Iloiui, liolils up his oonutry by sayluk'. "Kvauoo riHiulros no Oorsli-a to bo 
Kiviit. Kniiu'o Is Kiviit booiiuso hIio Is Fvamv." Tho otUor, ono of "'rtu> OKI t'.uiml," 
with II strsiuiroly tivnmlous voloo, luoihu-oil by his iutovnul eniollou, imswers, 
"UiMivou UnbM tlwt I shiHiUl lUniliilsh Fvauce; but It is not tUniiulshlnj; her to asnal- 
jtiunato Napoloon with lu>i-."| 

Come, h>t US talk. I am a. now-couier among you, but I con- 
fess that you astonish mo. * ^ * * j fancied you young 
men, but where do you keep your tnithusiasm, and what do you do 
with it? Whom do you admiro. if it is not tlie Emperor, and 
what more do you want? If you will not havo that great man, 
what groat man would you havo? 



'I'llKAHlJItKS l''U()M 'I'llK J'UOSFi WOULD. Cl 

Ho had everything, ho wan cc^iupleU', iuid in lii.s hrain wa,H Uic 
cubo of huiaau faciiliioH. lie made codes like JuHtiniaji, and dic- 
tated hke CiDHiir; hin couverHatiou l)lended the hghtniiig of PaHcal 
witli tlio tliitiider of Tacitus; he made history and wrote it, and 
his huUetins are lUads; ho combined the figures of Newton witli 
the metaplior of Mahomet. 

lie left behind liiiri in the east worlds groat as tlio j)yrainids, 
at Tilsit lie tanglit majesty to (jmperors, at tlie Academy of Sci'incc! 
ho answered LapliKic, at tlie Council of State lie lield liis own 
against Merlin, lie gave a soul to the geometry of one and to tlio 
sophistry of others, for he wjis a legist witli the lawyers, a sidereal 
witli the iistronomers. Like Cromwell, l>lowijig out one of two 
candles, he W(!iit i-o tlic, temjtlo to Itargain for a curtain tassel; Ik; 
saw everytliing, knew everytljing, but tliat did not prevent him 
from laughijig heartily l)y the cradle of his now-l>orn son. And, all 
at once, startled Europe listened, armies set out, i)arks of artillery 
rolled along, ])ridges of boats were thrown over rivers, clouds of 
cavalry gallojied in tlie humcanc, and shouts, bugles, and crashing 
of thrones could be heard all around. The frontiers of kingdoms 
oscillated on the map, the sound of a superhuman sword Ijeing 
drawn from its scabbard could be heard, and ho was seen, standing 
erect on tlie horizon, with a gleam in his hand, and a splendor in 
his eye, opening in the thunder of his two wings, the Grand Army 
and the Old Guard. He was the archangel of war. 

Let us bo just, my friends! Wliid; a splendid destiny it is for 
a people to bo the empire of such an eiiij)(;ror, wlien tliat peoj)]e is 
Franco and adds its genius to th(! genius of that niiui. I'o appear 
and reign; to march and triiunpli; t(j have as bivouacs every 
ca])ital; to select grenadiers and make kings of them; to decr(;e 
tli<! downfiill of dynasties; to transfigure Europe at double quick 
Ht<;[)s; to f(;(;l when you thnjaten that you lay your hand on tlie 
sword-hilt <jf G(xl; to follow in om; man Hannibal, Ciusar, and 
Charlemagne; to be the petjple of a ruler who accompanies yrtur 
every day-break with the brilliant announcement of a battle gained; 
to be aroused in the morning by the guns of the Invalides; to cast 



(52 TRKASUUES FROM THE PROSE WORLI>. 

into (ho iiln'ssos v( light i>riuligious wonls wliich inv otorniilly Imu- 
iuoiis ^larougo, Aroobi, Austorlitz, .lona, iiiui Wajj:rjiml — to im>- 
iluoo at oaoh niomout on tho Konitii oi oontmios I'onsioUations of 
viotoiios; to niako tho FionoU iMnpoixn* a juMulant of tho lu>nian 
I'anjnio; io ho tho s^ivat nation, and give birth to tho groat army: 
to t<iMul li\;;ions all ovor tJio worUl, as tJio luountaiu sends its oaglos 
in all clirootiiuis to con«iuor, rulo, ami crush ; to bo in Kuropo a 
l>iH>l>lo gilt by glory; to sound a Titanic Uourisli of trunipots 
through history; to ooutjuor tho world twico, by conquost and by 
aiutizoiuont — ail this is sublimo. 



A Heart Beneath a Stone. 

rTho sontln\onts which wo tvpy l\oiv mv ost.n>inoly boavitiful. A Frtniohnjjui, who 
by his iH>Uttv";>Kn>i'>lo<\s wa.-» oblt.cxvl to livo tu siHMVt, oou\inuuio»t(Hl witl> his huly 
by h^»vlu,»: a lottor V)onof»th :t stouo. Tho nv^t Is fnUy oxpUvluod tu tho f>»Uowt>»j;; I 

Sho raisod (ho stono, ■whioh was of soino sii'.o, and thon^ was 
soiuotlnug unilor i( that rosoniblod a lottor; it was an onvolopo of 
\\luii> papor. (.\^so(to soizod it; tJvoiv was no addivss on it, and it 
was no( sotUod up. Still tho onvoK^po. tliough opon. wsis not onipty, 
for t>apors oovdd bo soon insido. Cosotto no longor sutYorod fnnu 
tonvr. nor was it ouriosi(y: it was a oouinionooniont of anxioty. 
C\>so({o took out a snuill quiiv of paper, eaeli page of which was 
nuinbeixHl, and boi"o several lines wri(ten in a very nice and dehoato 
hand, so Oosette thought. She looked for a name, b\it then^ was 
none; for rt signatuiv, but theix^ was none, eitlier. For whom was 
tho packet intendeds* pivbably for hei-self. as rt hand had laid it 
on (he bench. From whom did it come? An irivsistible fascin- 
ation sei/AHl upon her. 8he (ried to turn her eyes away from 
these jnigt^s, which tivmlvled in her hand. She looked at tlie sky. 
the sdwt, (lie acacias all bathed in light, (he pigeons ciivling 
ixnuul aai adjoiuiiig i\x^f, aaul (hen her eyes se(tlcd on tho intuui- 



TIlRAHUllEH FROM TilK I'lUJHK WORLD. ({» 

Hcript, and hIks h;u(1 (,0 lusiwill' tliiil, jiIk; iiiimi know whiil. Wiiii 
iiiKido il,. Tliin \h wIihI, hIio niiid: 

'I'lio r(:(l\H-lU)ti of Uio iiiiivorHO to a mnglc being, tho dilation of 
a HJnf^'lc hciiig hh far as (ioil, hiicIi iw loves. 

Love iH the Haliitation of tho angclH to tli<! otarH. 

J low Had JH ilu) Hoiil wlion it in Had tliroiif^li lov<'l Wl>ata void 
in tho al)H(!nco of tlio boiii^', wlio of Ikt own wdf lilln tlio world. 
Oil! liow true it \h that tho Ixdovcjd hoitig IjoconioH Ood ! W<! 
might undcrHtaJjd liow dud might ho jcalouH of hor, had not, tlio 
I'atlicr of all evidently made creation for tho Houl, and the Honl for 
love. 

God is behind everything, hut everything concealH (jkx'I. 
ThingH are black and creaturen are opaque, ]>ut to love a being \h 
to render her traiiHparent. 



Certain tljouglitn are ])rayerH. There are mornentH when tho 
BOuI iH kneeling, no matter what tlie attitude of the body may bo. 



love, adoration I voliiptnouHneHH of two mindH which com- 
jtreiiend each other, of two lieartH which are exchanged, of two 
glanc<!H which ])enetrate one anotlicr. You will come to me, O 
li;i,ppin(;HH, will you not? WaIkH witli her in the Holituden, blcHt, 
and radiant daynl I hsiv*! dniiuiicd that from tirrK; to titrie hoiirH 
were detached from tlio liv<;H of angels, and came down iuuc to 
trav(;rKe the d(;HtinieH of ni(;n. 



(lod can juld nothing to tho haf)f)ineHH of t}ioH(! who lov(!, 
except giving tlniin ejidhiHH duriition. After a life of love, an eter- 
nity of love iH in truth lui n,iigmentii,U(jn ; hut it in impoHKihIc (!V<!n 
for (iixl 1,0 in(;r<!;u;e in itH intensity th(! ineffable felicity wlii(;b love 
givcH to tlie Houl in tiiin world. Clod iH tlie fullnoHH of heaven, l(jv<i 
in the fuliucBH of man. 



64 TREASURES PROM THE TROSE WORLD. 

Yon pazo at. ii star for two motivos : booauso it is luminous and 
bcoanso it is iuiponotrablo. Yon have by your side a sweeter radi- 
aiu'o and j^freator mystery — woman. 

When love has Wondod and molded two beings in an ivngelio 
and saered union, tJiey have found tlio secret (^f life; hencofortli 
they arc only the two terms of tJio same destiny, the two wings of 
(Mie mind. Love and soar! 



If yi>n are a stone, be a magnet; if you are a plant, be sensi- 
tive; if von are a man, be love. 



Love is tlie celestial breatliing of the atmosphere of paraiiise. 



I have met in tlio sti'cet a very poor young man who was in 
love, llis bat was old, his coat worn, his coat was out at elbows, 
the water passed tJirough his shoos, and the sttirs tlirough his soul. 



What a grand tiling it is to be loveil ! ^yhat a gmnder tiling 
still to love! Tlie heart becomes heroic by the might of passion. 
Henceforth it is composed of nought but what is pure, and is only 
supported by what is elevated and great. An unwortliy tliought 
can no more germinate in it than a nettle on a glacier. The lofty 
and serene soul, inaccessible to emotions and vulgar passions, soar- 
ing above tJie cUmuIs and sluub>ws o{ the world, follies, falsehoods, 
hata-eds, vanities, and miseries, dwt^Us in the azure of the sky, and 
henceforth oidy feels the profound and subterraiu^an heavings of 
destiny as the sunuuit of tJie mountains feels eartJiquakes. 



If there were nobody who loved, the sun would be extinguished. 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 66 



Advice to a 'Would-Be Criminal. 

|A yoniiK niiui sontrlit to iiiiinl(>r lui oldorly citi/.oii for liis iiioiKiy. In tlio MtruKglo 
tlio yoiiiiK mail w.ih ovcacomc l)y his liiUiiidod victim and lii;ld hy an iron t'liini). 
Wlillo In tlilH situation tlio citizen gave hlH intended murderer tlie loliowlnu excellent 
lecture :J 

"My boy, you arc entering by hIoIIi into tbo most laboriouH of 
existences, Ab 1 you declare yourself an icUer, tlien pi'epan! your- 
self for labor. Have you ever seen a formidable macbine wbicb is 
called a liattin{];-])re8S? You must be on your p^uard aj:jainst it, for 
it is a crafty and ferocious tiling, and if it catcbes you by tbo skirt 
of tbe coat it drags you under it entirely. Tbis macbine is indo- 
lence. 8top wbile tbero is yet time, and save yourself, otberwiso 
it is all over witb you, and ere long you will be among tbe 
cog-wbeels. Once caugbt, bope for notbing more. You Avill be 
forced to faliigue yourself, idler, and no rest will be allowed you, 
for tbe iron band of imj^lacable toil has seized you. You refuse to 
earn your livelibood, ba.vo a calling, and !U!eoiii])liKb a duly; it 
bor(!S you to bo like tbo rest — well, you will be diiferent. Labor is 
tbe law, iind wbo(!ver repulses it as a bore must b;ive it as a ])iiiiisb- 
nient. You do not wisb to be a Laborer, and you will be a slii,v(>; 
toil only lets you loose on one side to sci/e you again on tbe oilier; 
you do not wish to be its friend, and you will be its negro. All, 
you did not care for the honest bttigue of men, and you are about 
to know tbe sweat of tbe damned; wbile oibiirs sing you will groan. 
You will see other men working in the distance, and they will seem 
to you to be resting. The laborer, tbe reaper, the sailor, tbe 
blacksmith, will ajipcar to you in the light, like tbe blessed inmates 
of a piiradise, 

"Wbat a radiance there is in the anvil; what joy it is to guide 
the plow iiiid tie up the sheaf; what a holiday to fly before the wind 
in a boat! IJut you, idler, will have to dig, and dr;ig, and roll, iuid 
walkl Pull !i,t your halter, for you arc a beast of burden in tbo 



66 TEEASUEES PEOM THE TEOSE WOBLD. 

service of hell ! So your desire is to do nothing '? Well, you mil 
not have a week, a day, an hour mthout feeling crushed. You will 
not be able to lift anything without agony, and every passing 
niiviute will nuilie your muscles ci-ack. What is a featlier for otJaers 
will be a rock for you, and the most simple things wUl grow scarped. 
Life will become a monster around you, and coming, going, breath- 
ing, will be so many terrible tasks for yoii. Your lungs will pro- 
duce in you the effect of a hundred-pound weight, and going there 
sooner than here mil be a problem to solve. Any man who wishes 
to go out, merely opens his door and tinds himself in the street; 
but if you wish to go out you must pierce through your wall. What 
do honest men do to reach to street? They go down stairs; but 
you will tear up your sheets, make a cord of them, liber by liber, 
then pass tlirough your mndow and hang by this thread over an 
abyss, and it will take place at night, in the stonn, the rain, or the 
hurricane, and if the cord be too short you will have but one way 
of descenduig, by faUing — falhng hap-hazard into the gulf, and 
from any height, and on what? On some imkuoAXTi thing beneatli. 
Or you wiU chmb up a chimney at tlie risk of burning yourself, or 
crawl tlirough a sewer at the risk of drowning. I will say nothing 
of the holes which must be masked, of the stones which you will 
have to remove and put back twenty times a day, or of tlie plaster 
you must hide under your mattress. A lock presents itself, and the 
citizen has in his pocket the key for it, made by the locksmitli. 
But you, if you msh to go out, are condemned to make a terrible 
masterpiece; you will take a double sou and cut it asimder with 
tools of your own invention— that is your business. Then you will 
hoUow out the interior of the two parts, being careful not to injure 
the outside, and form a thread all round the edge, so that the two 
parts may lit closely hke a box and its cover. "VSlien they are 
screwed together there will be nothing suspicious to the watchers — 
for you will be wat^^hed — it "\\-ill be a double sou, but for yourseh a 
box. What win you place in this box? A small piece of steel, a 
watch-spring in which you have made teeth, and which mil be a 
saw. Witli this saw, about the length of a pin, you will be obhged 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 67 

to cut through the bolt of the lock, the p;icUock of your cham, the 
bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece 
done, this prodigy accomplished, all the miracles of art, skill, clever- 
ness and patience executed, what will be your reward if you are 
detected? A dungeon. Such is the future. What precipices are 
sloth and pleasure! To do nothing is a melancholy resolution; are 
you aware of that? To live in indolence on the social substance, 
to be useless, that is to say, injurious! This leads straight to the 
bottom of the misery. Woe to the man who wishes to be a para- 
site, for he will be a vermin ! Ah ! it docs not please you to work I 
Ah ! you have only one thought : to drink well, cat well, and sleep 
well. You will drink water, you will eat black bread, you will 
sleep on a plank with fetters riveted to your limbs and feel their 
coldness at night in your flesh ! You will break these fetters and 
fly? Very good. You will drag yourself on your stomach into the 
shrubs and eat grass like the beasts of the field, and you will be 
recaptured, and then you will pass years in a dungeon, chained to 
the wall, groping in the dark for your water-jug, biting at frightful 
black bread which dogs would refuse, and eating beans which 
maggots have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a 
cellar. Ah, ah! take j^ity on yourself, wretched boy, still so young, 
who were at your nurse's breast not twenty years ago, and have 
doubtless a mother still ! I implore you to listen to me. You want 
fine black cloth, polished shoes, to scent your head with fragrant 
oil, to please creatures and be a pretty fellow ; you will have your 
hair close shaven, and Avear a red jacket and wooden shoes. You 
want a ring on your finger, and will wear a collar on your neck 
and if you look at a woman you will be beaten ; and you will go in 
there at twenty and come out at fifty years of age ; you will go in 
young, red-cheeked, healthy, with your sparkUng eyes, and all your 
white teeth and your curly locks, and you will come out again broken, 
bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible and gray-headed! Ah, my poor 
boy, you are on the wrong road, and indolence is a bad adviser, for 
robbery is the hardest of labors. Take my advice, and do not 
undertake the laborious task of being an idler. To become a rogue 



08 TUFiASURES PROl^I 'VWK PllOSR WOULD. 

is iiironvoiii(Mii, mid it is luii iiciirly ko luiid io ho an honcsl, miiii. 
Now ;.ro tind iliiiik ovor what I Imvc s:»i(l to ifon. l>y Uio by, 
wlial. (lid yell Wiuit (if iiic? l\ly |tursii? Hero it, is." And tlu> old 
inaii, rcU>ii.sinj;j MonipiiriiiiSKO, placod his i)urso in his hand, which 
Moiilpariiasso uciji'luMl for a. moiuoiit, al'tor Nvhii'h, wiili tho saino 
inoi liauical proiMiilioii as if lio had stolon it, .I\h)nti)a:niasso lot it 
•;lido j^'oiitly into tho ha^ck-iuH-kot of his coat. All this said and 
done, tho old y;oiitloma.u turuod his back and (pru-ily rosiunod his 
walk. 



A Glass of Cold "Water. 

Whore is iho li(ini>r whioh (iod, tho I'jtornal. brows for all his 
ohildroM'* Not in llu> sinnnorinjj; still, ovor smoky liros choked with 
poistMUMis pisos, snrronndod with tho sttMioh of siokenin}:;: odors 
and rank ecn-rnptions doth your I'^itluM- in lli>avon prepare tho 
preeiiuis essence (»f life, the pure eold water. Ihit in Uie green 
f^lado nnd ,'?rassy dell, wImmv ilu^ red d(>er wanders and the child 
loves to }day; ther«> (iod bi-i>\vs it. And down, low down in tlu^low - 
est valleys, where the fountains nnn-nnir and the rills sing; and hi<\h 
iipon the tall mountain tops, when^ the naked s^'ranito !>littors like 
,",'old in tho Sim; whoro the storm-cloud broods, and the tlnmdor- 
stoiins crash; and away, far out on the wide, wild sea, whore the 
Imrricant^ lunvls music, and the hi;,' waves roar; tho clu>rus swiH>pin>jj 
tiio march o( Cunl; tlion- lli> br(>ws it that bov(M-a;,'0 o( hfi> and 
h(>alth-'rivinj4' watiM'. And ev(M-ywhere it is ii thin;^ o( beauty, 
j:;leannni^ in the dew-dn^p; singins;: in the snnnuer rain; shininjj; in 
tho ieo-geuis till the leaves all setMu to turn io living jew^els; spread- 
ing a golden veil over the setting sun, or a. white gauze around the 
midnight nunui; spivrting in the cataract, sleeping in the glacier, 
dancing in the hail slunver, folding its bright snow curtains softly 
aluMit the wintrv world, and waving the nianv-colorcd iris, that 



TIlKASDliKS KliOM 'rill'l I'UOSE WOlUil). 05) 

soraph'H zoiui ol' llw. nlvy, wIioho vviirp in tlio ruiii-drop of ciuiii, 
whoHo woof Ik Uk) Hiiiil)(!iim of lioiivcii, nil cliockercd over wil.li 
ccIcHiiid lIovv(!rH hy iluj iiiyKtit; liiuid of nifnicUoii, 

Sfill aJwiiyH iL in htiiuiiifiil, iJiiit lif()-;.;iviji{.j wii,f<^r; no |(oitsoii 
lMil)l)l('i; on il„s l>iiiik; ifii foaiii l)iiii;';s iiol, maducHH jumI imirilci-; no 
blood KfiiiiiH iiHii(jiiid j.^l!i,s,s; j)iilc) widovvH uiid Ht,ii,rviiif; orpliaii;! weep 
no hiiriiiii^,' k:!i,rH in ILh doplJi; no dj'iiidicn, Hhrickin^' j^IiohIj from IJio 
{,'ravo curHCH it in tlio wordn of oioninl doHpair. SjKJak oii, my fri<'ndn, 
would you excliiuij^) it for dumon'B driidc, alcohol? 



The Schoolmaster. 

li liiiH ])(;('n lio in(! ii, Hoinct! of pIcaKiin^ t,lioii;';li a. m(!la,ncJioly 
one, fliaJi in rcndcrin;^^ l\uH pid)li(; l,ril)iif(! to flio worlJi of our d(!- 
pa,rU;d fri(;nd, ih<! i-cspci-faJilo m(;mlK;)'H of two IxxlidH, oiio of ilicni 
moKl, devoted and (il'llciciut in itH Hciontillc iiujuiricsK, tho otlier eom- 
prisiii^' HO many na,nic'H eminent for |)liilantlir()j)y and learninf^', 
ha,v(! nu;t to do honor to tlio memory of a, HehoolmaHtoi-. 

There are prouder themeH for the (Mdofpst than tiii;;. Tiio 
praJHO of the wtatoBman, tlio wa,rrior oi' tiio orator furnish more 
splendid topicH for amhitiouH eloquejice; hut Jio theme ca,n he more 
rich in deH(!rt or more fruitftd in puhlic advaiita{,'0. 

The enli[,dit(!ned lilierality of many of our Htate {^overnmentH, 
• — amongst which we may claim a proud diHtinction for our own -hy 
extcndiuf,' the common school Hystem over their whole population, 
has hrouj-^ht (;lejiH!nta,ry eduea,tion to the door of ev(!ry fa,mily. In 
thiaSta^!, it app(;a;rn f)'om the aniniaJ i'(fportH of the Hecreta,ry of the 
Htate, thci'o are, heuideH the lifty in<-,orpo)'a,ted academicH and nnmei-- 
ouH ))riva,t(! hcIiooIh, about nine thounand Hchool diHtrictn, in each of 
which iiiKtruetion ii) rej^ularly (.^ivcui. TluJHe c<ud-ain at pren(;nthalf 
u million of cliildrcn ta,ii;dit in the single! State of Mew York. To 
these may be a,(l(l(;d nine or ten thouKa,nd more youth in the higher 
BemijiuricH ol learning, excluhive of the coilegcii. 



70 TRKASmiES yilOM Tlllil PROSE ^YOKLP. 

Of what iui'iilouljiWo iulluoiu-o, Uion, for gooil or for evil, upon 
l\\o iKnirost in((nvs(s of sooioty, must bo tJio ostininto ontortaiiuHl 
for (ho ohnniotor of tliis groat btnly of toaohors, aiid tin* riMisoiiuout 
rtvsnoota.hility oi the iuihviduals who iH^iuposo it I 

At tho nvont gonoral oloi'tion in tJiis Stato (lio votos of ulnno 
thivo huudrtHl thousaiul porsous woro takon. In thirty yeans tho 
givat uiajovlty of th.oso will have jvissotl away; llioir riglits will ho 
oxoixMswl aiul thoir duties assumed by tJioso very childnMi whoso 
uiiuds aiv now open io \tveivo their earliest arul most durable i\u- 
p^•e^;sious from the ten thousand seh(H)lmastert* of this State. 

W hat else is tJiere, in the wluiU> of onv social system, of sueh ex- 
tensive and j>owerful (>}HM-ation ou the national eharaeter? TheiY 
is one other intlneneo more j>o\verful, and but luie. Itris tJuit of 
tho MoTUKii. The fonns of a five goverumwit, tJio provisions of 
wise legi.slation, tJio sehemes of the statesman, tJio saoriiioes of tJio 
patriot, are as notliing eompared with tlu^se. If tJie futauv eitizeiis 
of our ivjaiblio aiv to be wortJiy ot their rieh inheritanee, they must 
Ih> made so jn-iueipally through llie virtue and inteUigojieo of tlieir 
moUuvrs. It is in the sehool of maternal tenderness that tlie kind 
atYeetions nnist bo lirst roused and made habitual, the early senti- 
ment of piety awakened and rijihtly direeted, the sense of duty and 
moral ivsponsibility unfoldotl and enlightened. But next in rank 
and in etiieaey io that pure and lu4y souive of moral mtluenee is 
that of the sela>olmaster. It is powerful already. What would it 
be if in »>\erv one o( those sehool distaiots whieh we now eount by 
annually inereasin;'- tlunisands, theiv weiv to be found ime teaeher 
well-infornu^l without juHlaniry, ivligious witlivuit bigotry or fanat- 
icism, pwnid and fond o( his profession, and honoivil in the diseliargv^ 
of his duties! How wide would be The intelleetual, the nionil 
influeiieo of sueli h body of men! Many sueh wo have alixnuly 
amongst us — uumi humbly wise and obseuivly useful, whom poverty 
CJinnot depn>ss nor negleet degnule. But to luise up a body of sueh 
men a^ nmneiinis as the wants aiid the dignity of the country de- 
mand, their labors must be titly ivm\ineK\ted and themselves and 
their calling cherished and h.Miori>d. 



TREASUBES FROM THE I'ROHE WORLD. 71 

Tho Bchoolmastcr's occupation in laborious and ungrateful ; ita 
rewardH arc Hcanty and ])rociuious. 11(3 may indeed be, and lie 
ouglit to l)c, animated by the consciousness of doing good, that 
best of all considerations, that noblest of all motives. Biit that, 
too, must bo often clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Obscun; 
and inglorious as Ins daily occupation may appear to lo:ini(d 
pride or worldly ambition, yet to ])o tridy successful and b;ip])y, 
bo must be animated l)y tlio Hi)ji'it of tlic same great principles 
which inspired the most illustrious Ijcncfactors of mankind. If 
ho bring to his task high talent and rich acquiromcnis, he 
must be content to look into distant years for th(! ])r()()f that 
his labors have not been wasted, that tho good seed which 
ho daily scatters abroaxl does not fall on stony ground and 
wither away; or among thorns, to be choked by the cares, the delu- 
sions or the vices of the world. He must solace his toils with the 
same prophetic faith that enabled tho greatest of modern philosc)- 
phei-s, jimidst the neglect or contempt of his own times, to regard 
himself as sowing the seeds of truth for posterity a,nd tho care of 
Heaven. He must arm himself against disappointment and mor- 
tification with a portion of that same noble conlidcnce which soothed 
the greatest of modern poets when weighed down by care and dan- 
ger, by poverty, old age and blindness — still 

"In proijhotlc dream ho saw 
Tho youth unliorn, with jiloim awo 
Imbibe each vii-tno from liiw nacrod piiKO." 

He must know, and he must love to teach his pupils, not the 
meager elements of knowledge, but the secr(!t and tlie use of tlieir 
own intellectual strength, exciting a,nd (uialjling ihem hereafter to 
raise for themselves the veil wliich covers the majestic form of 
Truth. He must feel deeply tlie reverence due to tho youthfii] 
mind, fraught with mighty though undeveloped energies and affec- 
tions, and mysterious and eternal destinies. Thence ho must have 
learnt to reverence himself and his profession and to look upon its 
otherwise ill-requited toils as their own exceeding great reward. 

If such are the difficulties and the discouragements, such the 



72 TBEASUBES FllOU THE PBOSE WOULD. 

diitios, the motives hikT the consolations of teacliers who are worthy 
of that name and trust, how imperious, then, the obhii;ation upon 
every onhghtened citizen who knows and feels tlie value of such 
nu'H to aid them, to cheer Uiem and hon(n'themI 

I hit let us not be C(>ntent with barren lunu)r to buried merit, 
Iji>t us pro\o our gratitude to the dead by faithfully endeavoring to 
elevate the station, to enlarge the usefulness and to raise the char- 
acter of the schoolmaster amongst us. Thus shall we best testify 
our gratitude to the teachers and guides of our own youth, thus 
best si>rvo our country, and thus most ellectually diffuse over our 
Luiil light, and truth, and virtue. 



Admiration of Genius. 

'J'here is a certain charm about great superiority of intellect 
tliat winds into det>p alTections, which a nuu'h more constant and 
even amiability of manners in lesser nu-n, often fails to reach. 
Cicnius makes msiny enemies, but it makes sure friends, friends who 
forgive mui'h, who endure long, who exact little; they partake of ihc 
diameter of disciples as well as friends. There lingers about tlio 
luntum heart ai strong inclination to l(H>k upward — to revere; in tins 
inilijintiitu lies the source of religion, of loyalty, and also of the wor- 
phij) and inunort4ility wliich are rendered so cheerfully to the glvat of 
old. And, in truth, it is a divine pleasure to admire. Admiration 
seems, in some measure, to ajipropriato to ourselves the qualities it 
houiu-s in others. We wed — we root ourselves to tlie natures we 
so love to contemplate, and their life grows a part of our own. 
Thus, when a great man, who has engrossed our tlioughts, out 
conjectures, our honuvge, dies, a gap seems suddeidy leftiu the world 
— a wheel in the nu^chanism of our own being appears abruptly 
stilled; a portion of ourselves, arul not our worst portion — for how 
many pure, high, generous sentiments it contains — dies with him. 



TKEAyUllEB I'llOM THE rilOSE WOULD. 73 



BENJAMINE F. TAYLOR 



BKNJAMINK ]^'l!ANT\rjlNn'AYIjOR,oiioof Amoricji'H uioHt 
giftoil and entertaining authors and lootnrora, was born 
in LowvMlo, N. Y., ill 1822. Ho received liis education at 
Madison University, ISciW York, nudc^r tlie tutorship ot his 
father, who was at tlint time president ol' the institution. 
Mr. Taylor has hoc.n an active and ])opuhi,r worker hi the 
literary held. 'J'ho yittractions of LaiKjuiKjc appeared in 
1845, and Januarij cviid June, in 185:$. From the hitter vol- 
ume of charming essays and poems wo have made our nelec- 
tions. No one who admires beautiful word-pictures, fine 
sentiment, and a cdear and entertaining literary style, can 
afford to ho without the volumes of ]5. ¥. Taylor. 

For many yeiirs ho was literary editor of the Chicago 
"Evening Journ;i.l." During tlio ]a,te war ho was the "-h)nr- 
nal's" principal war correspondent. Mnny of his letters 
have been gathered together and published under the title of 
Pictures in Ca\np and Field. 

His pictures are so perfect, and his words so a(lmiral)ly 
selected, that in reading them wo live aga,in our soldicir life. 
We luiar the rattle of musketry, and tho roar of artillery ; 
and we see the advancing columns and tlu) t(!rrible conflict 
as tho armies contest in a hand-to-hand struggle; and wlu^ii 
tlie winds have lifted the black smoke, wo see the t(;rri])le 
woik of l)ii,t[le, and wo again earnestly pray a kind Father 
to 8pr(!ad the mantled mourning of night over tho scene. 

Mr. Taylor published The World on Wheels in 1873, and 



71 TliEASUliES I'lvOm THE TllOSE WOKLD. 

Old Time Pictures ami Sheares of li In/ me in 1S74. All of his 
works have passed through several editions. Ho has been 
very popular on the lyeeuni platform. 

It Avill i>ay us. ]<u\d fiieuds, to read the volumes of Tay- 
lor. They eontaiu the beautiful wish that "our lives and his 
ni;iy not be composed of riindmn 'scores.' but be a beau- 
tiful antluMu. luirmony in all its pjirts, nudody in all its 
tones ; not a strain ■wanting, not a note out of tune ; till 
'the daughters of nnisic are brought low,' and the life- 
anthem is ended." 

"l^ut isn't it a pleasant thought thiit jwrli a ps somebody 
may take up the tiuu>, ^Yhen we are dead — not a note lost, 
nor a jar. nor a discord, but all swan-like harmony? 
TiMluips! perhaps! TluM-e is something hollow, like a 
knell, in that word. The veil that hides the future is woven 
of 'perhaps;' in it the greatest ills have their solace, the 
brightest jins their cloiul." 




TllEASUllEB FllOM THE TiiOSE WUliJilJ. 



'At the Open ■Window. 

Hero I iini, to-diiy, Bittiiif,' l)y lui opoi window, ilio -wind iiH f^'on- 
tlo iiH Juno, ])liiyl'iilly ]iriiii<^' Lho conicrH of tlio psipcr I wriiooii, iuul 
l(!lJ,iii^f IJkmu KoI'lJy down M,!j,'ii,iii; wliilc; y(;i->Loi'd;i,y, oi- tlio diiy Ixil'ojx;, 
1 wiiH in perihelion, iU!sf,lod close in tlie cliinniey-corner; find wind 
— coiUd IL have been this Hjune wind, now toyin<^ witli ihe tiiMsel of 
the curtain, that in such a mood twisted up a Httlo oak by the roots, 
tliat never did any harm, and hollow-voiced and frosty from the dim 
northwest, made 2>t!miy-whistles of the Inif^e, old-fashioned cliini- 
ney-tops? Nature is a good deal of ;i, rlietorician; she loves ritpid 
transitions and startling contrasts. 

Time, itself, all through the long-drawn past, is inlaid with day 
and night — night and d;iy. Suppose it had been all dii,y tlirough 
the world; it woidd have bcien "all day" with us our h!i,|)i)iness, our 
interests, and life would ))0 "dull" at (iighty cents on the dollar. 
Now, we are like tliose wandering at hiisurc! fi'om room to room, in 
some splendid suite of iipartments, divid(!(l by the da,rk and niarl)iii 
walls of night. We ent(;r some beautiful d;i,y, ])e;u'l for its threslioid 
and crimson for its curtains. "With what luusic they rustle ii,s un- 
seen hands lift them to let us through! And what vaj'ied sur2)rises 
keep us on tlio (/id vim all along, as wo pass through it! And how 
gorgeous the drapery let down behind us, as wo enter tho dark open- 
ing in the walls of night— those walls (Jod built, a,nd yet, thnnigh 
which, at a thousand points, shiiu) divided days, ycsto'diiy, a,nd to- 
morrow I 

And what a Luiif) — no "Astral," but a, ti'uo Luiku", is hung ij) 
the passage-way; and tlien, when wo luive done wandering tbrougli 
this great tcmplo of Time, and pass tho last door, and the veil closes 
down before the last day, and we find ourselves "out doors" in the 
universe, and free to gowhitlier we will —children again— aye, cliil- 
dreu "just let loose from school." How wc shall scatter away over 



76 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

fields all flowers, and no frosts, where there is no such word as 
November, and no such thought as death. Life will be hfe still, but 
without its struggle, and ourselves still ourselves, but with windows 
all around the soul. We shall see hearts beat as plainly then, as 
we now see the movements of dehcate chronometers beneath their 
crystal cases — emotions will be visible — the footfalls of thought 
audible — the trickery of hght and shade by-gone, and things will 
appear as they are. 

And the pleasant surprises that shall meet us there ; perhaps 
the trees will grow by music, and the streams murmur articulate; 
perhaps we shall meet and recognize those who had gone on before. 
New scenes, new beauties, new thought — everywhere "j^lus ultra'' — 
more beyond. 



And Such a Change, 

The glories of twilight have departed, and the gray night of the 
year has, at last, set in. 

The tree by my window has thrown off the red and yeUow liv- 
ery it has worn of late, and with naked arms tossing A\-ildly about, 
stands shivering in the gusts, dismantled and desolate. Strange to 
say, I love it better than when song and shadow met in its branches 
— better than ever; but it is not a love born of pity; it needs none, 
for its life is locked up safely in the earth beneath, and whistle as it 
will, the boatswain of aWinter wind cannot pipe up a pulse or a bud. 
Through its leafless limbs I can see Heaven, now, and there arc nc^ 
stars in the trees in June. The sweet brier creaks uneasily against 
the wall; the snow is heaped on the window sill; the frost is "castle 
building" on the panes; the streams are dumb; the woods stand 
motionless under the weight of white Winter. 

It is Saturday — Saturday afternoon ; the children "just let loose 
from school," and Clear Lake is swarming with juvenile skaters. 

Grouped here and there in clusters, hke swarms of bees or bev- 



Teeasures from the PEOSE WOELD. 77 

ies of blackbirds in council, now and then, one and another and a 
third dash out in graceful circles, with motion as easy as flying. 
Huge sixes and sweeping eights, and eagles with enormous length 
of wings, are "cut" upon the "sohd water." 

Presently the whole cluster breaks and fly in every direction, 
hke a flock of pigeons. There go a brace in a trial of speed; there, 
a Castor and Pollux, hand in hand; here, a game of goal is going 
on, and here, a game of "red lion." 

Away there hes a httle fellow upon his back, taking his first les- 
son in skater's astronomy. Ask him, and he will tell you he "saw 
stars" but a moment ago, that never were named. 

The sun is going down in the west, and they have been upon 
the ice since high noon. But what is that to them? What care 
they for cold, and fatigue, and time? Saturday comes but once a 
week, and ice hardly once a year. But they'll find ice enough by 
and by — ice in midsummer — iced hopes, iced friendship, icy hearts. 
And as for the Saturdays, they'll grow "few and far between" — 
thcy'U not come once a week, nor once a month; and happy will he 
be who has a Saturday afternoon and evening to end his hfc with. 
Then who says the boys sha'n't skate? Who grudges them the 
"rockers?" Look at that httle fellow now; on one arm hang his 
skates, a "brand new" pair, glittering like a couple of scimetars. 
'Tis his first appearance on the skater's field. Down he gets upon 
the ice; his little red and white mittens, tethered with a string, lie 
beside him, while with his chubby red fingers he dallies and tugs 
with buckles and straps, every now and then blowing his fingers to 
keep them in a glow. All right and tight, he's rigged, he's ready, 
he's up and off! What warrior ever harnessed for the field and the 
fray with a richer pride mantling his cheek, or a brighter joy light- 
ing his eye ! There may have been one or two, but there is no rec- 
ord of them in Froissart. 



78 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Musing by the Fire. 

Musing here by the sleepy fire, this stormy night, about "one 
thing and another," the chime of bells, httle and big, comes sweetly 
to my ear through the snowy air. 

Those sounds are mnemonic — they are the sweet beUs of the 
past; and in the time of a single note, we are back again into the 
vanished years in a winter's night, the moon at the fuH, "some- 
body very near," and the merry bells ringing as they ring now. 
How silvery were the laughs that issued then, from beneath the 
downy mufflers and quilted hoods. How bright were the eyes that 
ghttered through green veils then, like stars through a leafy wood. 
BeUs! There have been knells since then, and those who "make no 
new friends," must journey alone. You who vaunt upon life and 
station and the permanence of things earthly, return to the scenes 
of your youthful days of a winter's night. And the "turn-out" — 
let it be as of old, and call here and there, where dwelt the com- 
panions of a brighter time. Here the stranger, there the estranged, 
and there, echo answers to your impatient rap. 

The horses are at the gate, eager to be gone, and shake music 
from those bells at every toss of the head. But it is not music to 
you, and turning slowly homeward, you pass in the moonlight a 
field furrowed with many a drifted heap. It is "God's Field," and 
many who were your companions on just such a night, lie silent 
there. Aye ! muffle the bells of memory, and pass on, a sadder but 
a wiser man. 



TEEASUEES PROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 79 



The Old-Fashioned Mother. 

Old-fashioBed mothers have nearly all passed away with the 
blue check and homespun woolen of a simpler but purer time. 
Here and there one remains, truly accomplished in heart and life 
for the sphere of home. 

Old-fashioned mothers — God bless them! — who followed us, 
with heart and prayer, all over the world — lived in our lives and 
sorrowed in our griefs ; who knew more about patching than poetry ; 
spoke no dialect but that of love; never preached nor wandered; 
"made melody with their hearts;" and sent forth no books but living 
volumes, that honored their authors and blessed the world. 

If woman have a broader mission now, in Heaven's name let 
her fulfill it ! If she have aught to sing, like the daughters of Judah 
let her sit down by the waters of Babel, and the world shall weep ; 
like Miriam let her triumph-strain float gloriously over crushed but 
giant wrong, and the giant wrong and the world shaU hear; but let 
the triumph and lament issiie, as did the oracles of old, from behind 
the veil that cannot be rent, the "inner temple" of sacred Home. 

Within it should be enshrined the divinity of the place. 
Here, and here only, would we find woman; here imprison her — 
imprison her? Aye, as the light-house ray, that flows out, pure as 
an angel's pulses, into the night and darkness of the world — a star 
beneath the cloud; but brightest there — warmest there — always there 
where Heaven did kindle it, within the precinct, the very altar-place 
of home ! 

It is related of Madame Lucciola, a renowned vocalist, that she 
ruined a splendid tenor voice by her efforts to imitate male singing. 
Many a sweet voice and gentle influence in the social harmony 1ms 
been lost to the world in the same manner. There is nothing more 
potent than woman's voice, if heard, not in the field or the forum, 
but at home. The song-bird of Eastern story, borne from its native 



80 TEEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

isle, grew dumb aiicl languished. Seldom did it sing, and only 
when it saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its drowsy perch 
there came a tone heard long ago in its own woods. So with 
the song that woman sings ; best heard within Home's sacred temple. 
Elsewhere, a tnimpet-tone — perhaps a clarion-cry, bnt the lute-hke 
voice has fled: the "mezzo-soprano" is lost in the discords of earth. 

The old homestead! I wish I coidd paiijt it for you, as it is — 
no, no, I dare not say, as it is — as it ivas; that we could go together, 
to-uight, from room to room; sit by the old hearth round which 
that circle of hght and love once swept, and there linger till all 
those simpler, purer times returned, and we should grow young 
again. 

And how can we leave that spot without remembering one 
form, that occupied, in days gone by, the old arm-chair, — that "old- 
fashioned MoTHEu?" — one, in all the world, the law of whose life 
was love ; one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the sacred 
presence in the shrine of our first earthly idolatry; one whose 
heart is far below the frosts that gather so thickly on her brow; 
one to whom we never grow old, but in "the plumed troop" or 
the grave council are children still ; one who welcomed us coming, 
blest us going, and never forgets us — never. 

And when, in some closet, some drawer, some corner, she finds 
a garment or a toy that once was yours, how does she weep as she 
thinks jon may be suffering or sad. And when Spring 

"Leaves her robe on the trees," 

does she not remember ijonr tree, and Avisli you were there to see it 
in its glory'? 

Nothing is "far," and nothing "long," to ]ut: she girdles the 
globe mth a cincture of love; she encircles her child, if he be on the 
face of the earth. 

Think you, as she sits in that well remembered comer to-night, 
she dreams her trembling arm is less powerfid to protect him now, 
stalwart man tliough he is, than when it clasped him, in infancy, 
to her bosom ? 

Does the battle of life drive the wanderer to the old homestead. 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 81 

at last? Her hand is ujion his shoulder; her dim and fading eyes 
are kindled with something of "the light of other days," as she gazes 
upon his brow: "Be of stout heart, my son! No harm can reach 
thee here ! " 

Surely, there is Init one Heaven — one Mother — and one God. 

But sometimes that arm-chair is set back against the wall, the 
corner is vacant, or another's, and they seek the dear old occupant 
in the graveyard. God grant you never have! Pray God, I never 
may! 

There are some there, though, whom we loved — there 77in.Ht be 
to make it easy djing; some, perhaps, who were cradled on that 
mother's bosom; some, perhaps, who had grown fast to our own. 

The old graveyard in L ! How the cloudy years clear 

away from before that httle acre in God's fallow field, and the mem- 
ories return. 



^?Vork. 



There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredncss, in work. 
Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is 
always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works; in idle- 
ness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so mammon- 
ish, mean, is in communication with nature; the real desire to get 
work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's 
appointments and regulations, which are truth. 

The latest gospel in this world is: "Know thy work, and do it." 
"Know thyself:" long enough has that poor "self" of thine tor- 
mented thee ; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I l)elieve I Think 
it not thy business, this of knowing thyself, thou art an unknow- 
able individual; know what thou canst work at, and work at it like 
a Hercules ! That wiU be thy better plan. 

It has been written "an endless significance lies in work," as 
man perfects himself by writing. Foul jungles are cleared away, 



82 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PKOSE WOKLD. 

fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities ; and withal the man 
himself first ceases to be a jungle and fonl, unwholesome desert 
thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labor, the 
whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the 
instant he sets himself to work ! Doubt, desire, sorrow, reinorse, 
indignation, despair itself, all these, like heU-dogs, lie beleaguering 
the soul of the poor day-worker, as of every man, but as he bends 
himself with free valor against his task, all these are stilled, all 
these shrink murmuring afar off into their caves. The man is now 
a man. The blessed glow of labor in him, is it not a jnirifying fire, 
wherein all poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is 
made bright, blessed flame? 

Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. 
A formless chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and ever 
rounder; ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata, spher- 
ical courses; is no longer a chaos, but a round, compacted world. 
What would become of the earth did she cease to revolve ? 
In the poor old earth, so long as she revolves, all inequalities, 
irregularities, disperse themselves ; aU irregularities are incessantly 
becoming regular. Hast thou look,ed on the potter's wheel, one of 
the venerablest objects; old as the prophet Ezekiel, and far older? 
Rude lumps of clay, how they spin themselves up, by mere quick 
wliirhng, into beautiful circular dishes. And fancy the most assidu- 
cfus potter, but without his wheel, reduced to make dishes, or 
rather amoi-phous botches, by mere kneading and baking! Even 
such a potter were destiny with a human soul that would rest and 
lie at ease, that would not work and spin ! Of an idle, unrevolving 
man, the kindest destiny, like the most assiduous potter Avithout 
wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch; let her 
spend on him what expensive coloring, what gilding and enameling 
she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulging, kneaded, 
crooked, shambling, squint-cornered, amoi^ihous botch, a mere 
enameled vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this. 

Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other 
blessedness. He has a work, a hfe-pui-pose ; he has foimd it and 



TREARUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 83 

will follow it! How, as the free-flowing channel, dug and torn by 
noble force through the sour mud-swamp of one's existence, hke an 
ever- deepening river there, it runs and flows, draining off the sour, 
festering water gradually from the root of the remotest grass blade, 
making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green, fruitful meadow 
with its clear, flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, 
let the stream and ita value be great or small ! 

Labor is hfe ! From the inmost heart of the worker rises his 
God-given force, the sacred, celestial hfe-essence breathed into him 
l)y Almighty God ; from his inmost heart awakens him to all noble- 
ness, to all knowledge, "self-knowledge" and much else, so soon as 
work fitly begins. Knowledge ! the knowledge that will hold good 
in working, cleave thou to that, for nature herself accredits that, 
says Yea to that. Properly thou hast no other knowledge but what 
thou hast got by working, — the rest is yet all an hyjiothesis of 
knowledge, a thing to be argued of in schools, a thing floating in 
the clouds, in endless logic vortices, till we try it and fix it. 
"Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by action alone." 

And again, hast thou valued patience, courage, perseverance, 
openness to hght, readiness to own thyself mistaken, to do better 
next time? All these, all virtues in wresthng with the dim brute 
powers of fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such wrestle, there, 
and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually learn. Set down a 
brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black, ruined stone-heaps 
of fooHsh unarchitectural bishops, red-tape officials, idle Nell Gwyn 
defenders of the faith, and see whether he will ever raise a Paul's 
Cathedral out of aU that, yea or no! Eough, rude, contradictory 
are all things and persons, from the mutinous masons and Irish 
hod-men, up to the idle Nell Gwyn defenders, to blustering red-tape 
ofticials, foolish unarchitectural bishops. AU these things and per- 
sons are there, not for Christopher's sake and his cathedrals; they 
are there for their own sake, mainly! Christopher will have to 
conquer and constrain all these,' if he be able. All tliese are against 
him. 

Equitable nature herseh, who carries her mathematics and 



84 TREASURES FllOU THE ITvOSE WORLD. 

aivhitectoiiics not on tlie faco of her, but deep in tlie hiilden heart 
of her — nature horsch is but partiiilly for him, — ^vill be wholly 
against him, if ho constrain her not! His very money, where is 
it to come from'? Tlie j.ious munificence of England lies far scat- 
tered, distant, unable to speak and sa'f, "I am here;" miist bo 
spoken to before it can speak. Pious munificence, and all help, is 
so silent, invisible like the gods; impediment, coutraihctions mani- 
fold are so loud and near! brave Sir Christopher, trust thou in 
those notwitlistanding, and front all these; undoistaiid all those; 
by vahant patience, noble effort, insight, vancpiish and compel ail 
these, and, on the Avhole, strike down victoriously the last top-stono 
of tliat Paul's eihiice, thy momiment for certain centuries, the 
stamp "Great Man" impressed very legibly in Porthmd stone 
there 1 

Yes, all maimer of work, and pious response from men or 
nature, is always what we call silent, — cannot speak or come to 
light till it be seen, till it be spoken to. Every noble work is at 
first "imjHissible." In very truth, for every noble work the possi- 
bilities will he diffiised tlirough immensity, inarticulate, xmdiscover- 
able except to faith. Like Gideon, thou shalt spread out thy fleece 
at the door of thy tent ; see whether under the wide arch of heaven 
tliere bo any bounteous moisture, or none. Thy heart and hfe- 
purpose shall be a miraculous Gideon's fleece spread out in silent 
appeal to heavoii; and fnnn tlie kind immensities, what from the 
poor unkind localities and town and country parishes there never 
could, blessed dew-moisture to suffice thee shall have fallen 1 

"Work is of a religious nature: work is of ixbrave nature, which 
it is tlie aim of all religion to be. "AU work of man's is as the 
swimmer's," a waste ocean threatens to devour him; if he front it 
not bravely it will keep its word. By incessant, wise deliance of 
it, lusty rebuke aiul buffet of it, behold how it loyally supports him, 
bears him as its conqueror along. "It is so," says Goethe, "^A-ith 
aU things that man undertalces in this Avorld." 

Brave sea-captain, Norse sea-king, Columbus, my hero, royalist 
sea-kins: of all ! it is no f riendlv environment this of thine in tlie 



TEEASUEES I'EOM THE I'EOSE WOELD. 85 

waste deep waters; around thee mutinous, discouraged souls, behind 
thee disgrace and ruin, before tliee unpenctrated veil of night. 
Brother, these wild water-mountains, l)()unding from their deep 
bases — ten miles deep, I am told, — are not entirely there on thy 
behalf I Mesccms iluuj have other work than floating thee forward ; 
and the huge winds that sweep from Ursa Major of the tropics and 
equator, dancing their giant walt:^ through the kingdoms of chaos 
and inmicnsity, they care little about filling rightly or filling 
wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this cockle skiff of 
thiiKi! Thou art not among articulate speaking friends, luy 
brother; thou art anumg immeastirable dumb monsters, tumbling, 
howling wide as the world hero. Secret, far-olT, invisible t(j idl 
hearts but thine, there lies a help in tluiin. Bee how thou wilt get 
at that. Tatiently thou wilt wait until the mad southwester spend 
itself, saving thyself by dexterous science of defence the while; 
valiantly, with swift decision, wilt thou strike in when the favoring 
east, the possible, spiings up. Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly 
repress; weakness, despondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage ; thou 
wilt swallow down complaint, unreason, weariness, v/cakness of 
others and thyself — how much wilt thou swallow down! There 
shidl bo a depth of silence in thee deeper than this sea which is 
but ten miles deep; a silence unsoundable, known to God only. 
Thou shalt be a great man. Yes, my world-soldier, thou of the 
world marine-service, thou wilt have to be tjnMtar than this tunudt- 
uous, unmeasured world here around thee is; thou in thy strong 
soul, as with wrestler's arms, shalt embrace it, harness it down, 
and make it bear thee on to new Americas, or whither God wills 1 
* * * * * * * * *- * 

Eeligion, I said, for, properly speaking, all true work is religion ; 
and whatsoever religion is not work mii,y go and dwell among the 
Brahmins, Antinomians, spinning dervishes, or where it will; with 
me it shall have no harbor. Admirable was that of the old monks : 
Xaboram est orare, "work is worship." 

Older than all preached gospels was this unpreached, inarticu- 
late, but ineradicable, forever-enduiing gospel: Work, ajid therein 



86 TEEASUllES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 

have well-beiBg. Man, son of earth and of heaven, hes there not, in 
the innermost heart of thee, a spirit of active method, a force for 
work; — and burn hke a painfully smoldering fire, giving thee no 
reat till thou unfold it, till thou write it down m beneficent facts 
around thee! What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make 
methodic, regulated, arable; obedient and productive to thee. 
Wheresoever thou findest disorder, there is thy eternal enemy; 
attack him SAviftly, subdue him; make order of him, the subject, 
not of chaos, but of intelligence, divinity and thee! The thistle 
that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful grass, a 
drop of nourishing milk may grow there instead. The waste 
cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it, that in 
place of idle htter there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of 
man be covered. 

But above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, biaite- 
mindedness, attack it, I say; smite it wisely, miweariedly, and 
rest not while thou livest and it hves, but smite, smite in the name 
of God! The Highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so 
command thee — still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even 
He, with His unspoken voice, fuller than any Sinai thunders or 
syllabled speech of whirlwinds — for the silence of deep eternities, of 
worlds from beyond the morning-stars, does it not speak to thee? 
The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long-moldering dust, 
the very tears that wetted it, now all dry — do not these sj)eak to 
thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death — kingdoms, the 
stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time pro- 
claim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever 
man should, shalt work while it is called to-day. For the night 
cometh wherein no man can work. 

All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but true 
hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the 
earth, has its summit in heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from 
that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart — which includes all 
Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all sciences, all spoken 
epics, all acted heroisms, martyrdoms, — up to that "agony of 



TKEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 



87 



bloody sweat" which all men have called divine I brother, if 
this is not "worship," then I say, the more jnty for worship ; for 
this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky. Who 
art thou that complainest of thy Hfe of toil? Complain not. Look 
up, my wearied brother; see thy fellow -workmen there in God's 
eternity; surviving there, they alone sur^'iving; sacred band of the 
immortals, celestial body-guard of the empire of mankind. Even 
in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as 
heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peophng, they alone, the 
unmeasured solitudes of time ! To thee heaven, though severe, 
is not unkind. Heaven is kind as a noble mother, as that Spartan 
mother, saying while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my 
son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home in. honor, to thy 
far-distant home in honor, doubt it not, if in the battle thou keep 
thy shield ! Thou, in the eternities and deepest death kingdoms, 
art not an ahen ; thou everywhere art a denizen ! Complain not ; 
the very Spartans did not complain. 




88 TEBASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



HENRY WADSAATORTH LOMGFELLOAAT. 



HENEY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW was born in 
Portland, Me., February 27, 1807, and he died at his 
home in Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882, at the age of 
seventy-five. For some time before his death his home was 
in the building formerly occupied by Gen. V/ashington as 
his headquarters. 

Longfellow studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, and 
after three years' travel and study in Europe, became Pro- 
fessor of Modern Languages in his native college. In 1835, 
he accepted the Chair of Modern Languages and Literature 
in Harvard University. 

The poet's youth was noted for industry and close ap- 
plication to study, While at college, he became somewhat 
noted for his poems and criticisms contributed to periodicals. 
Longfellow's literary record is a long one. In 1833, he pub- 
lished translations of Spanish verses called Coplas de Man- 
rique, and an essay on Spanish poetry; 1835, Sketches from 
Beyond the Sea; 1839, Hyperion, a Romance, and also col- 
lections of poems, entitled Voices of the Night ; 1842, Poems 
on Slavery ; 1843, The Spanish Student, a tragedy ; 1845, 
Poets and Poetry of Europe; 1846, The Belfry of Bruges ; 
1847, Evangeline ; 1849, Kavanaugh, and The Seaside and 
Fireside; 1851, The Golden Legend; 1855, Song of Hia- 
watha; 1858, Miles Standish ; 1863, Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

He has also published Three Books of Song, a divine 
tragedy; and translations. Thus we see that Longfellow 






/*>^ ^--^r 







HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



TllEASUllES FROM THE i'UOSE W()]!,IiI>. 80 

WJiH ii f^roai ]ii(M':ii-y worker. Wliipplo wiyH iluili Loiij^'rollow 
idealizes roiil lif(\ (unhodieH liif^li moral Hoiiiiiruuii in l)oauti- 
ful and onnohlin^ TormH, Jind inwoavoH ilio j^oldon tln-cadH 
of Hpirituiil hoiii^ into tlio i(',xt(ir(! of (iorninoii oxistoiKU). Ho 
iw tlie nioHt popiihi,!* of Aiiicridiin po<!iH, and his vvorku aro 
admired ihroiij^hout tlio iiiorary world. In s[)(!:ikiii}^f of bin 
death, vmder date of Marcdi 24, 1882, the Jjoiidon 'J'tines 
sayH : " NewH of Longfellow's death will bo read with deep 
regret wherever the Englinb language i« spoken. The death 
of no literary l^bigliHlnnan (!ould excite iriore general Borrow 
tlmn that of tlie nuKih-loved author of Kiuiiif/cUiic. Tlo will 
be no niorc! siiuuu'cly lamented in Anioric^a tliiiii in IhiH 
coiuitry." 

The News, Standard and Tcictjraph all speak in e(|ually 
graceful terms of Longfellow. 



"All Llio iriaiiy HOundH of iiaLuro 
lioii'owod HWoctncHM t'roiii liln nliiKlnn; 
All f.lid lic'irl.H ol' iiiMi wiiro HoI'Lciiiod 
Jty IJin j)!i,Uii)H ol' lii.M iiiuHJc; 

For ho naa« of poiioo and I'roodoiii, 
HanK of I)(!:iuty, lovo, luid lorinInK; 
HiiiiK of dciiLli, a lll'o imdyliiK 
\x\ tlio IslandH of tlio UloHHod." 



90 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Rural Life in S-weden. 

Thore is somotliiiig piitiiarclijil still liiigoiiug about rural life 
in Sweden, whicli renders it a lit tlieme for song. Almost primeval 
simplicity reigns over tliat northern land — almost primeval solitude 
and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the eity, and, as if by 
magic, tlie scene clumges to a wild wooiUand Lindscape. Aroimd 
you are foivsts of lir. Overhead hang tJie long, fan-like branches, 
trailing witli moss and hea\y witli red and blue cones. Under 
foot is a carpet of yellow leaves, and tlio air is warm and balmy. 
On a wooden bridge you cross a little silver stream ; and anon eomo 
fortJi into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences 
divide the adjoining tields. Across tJie road are gates, which are 
opened by ti-oops of children. The peasants take olY tlieir hats as 
you pass; yon sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!" The houses 
in the villages and smaller towns are all built of hewn timber, and for 
tlie most part painted red. The lloors of the taverns are strewed with 
tilio fragmnt tips of fir boughs. In many villages there are no tav- 
erns, and the peasants take turns in receiving travelers. Tbo thrifty 
housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of ■<. jich are 
hung round witli rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings you her 
heavy silver spoons — an heirloom — to dip the curdled milk from the 
pan. You have oaten cakes baked some montlis -liefore, or bread 
with aaiise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 
Meaaiwhile the sturdy Imsbaaul has brought his horses from the 
plow, and harnessed tliem to your carriage. Solitary travelers 
como luid go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have 
pipes in their mouths, and hanging around tlieir necks in front, a 
leatJier wallet, in which tliey carry tobacco, smd the great bank notes 
of the country, as large as yi>ur two hands. You meet also groups 
of Dalekarlian peasant women, traveling homeward or townward in 
pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hirnds 



TREASUBES FROM TUE I'ROSE WORLD. 91 

their shoes, which liavo high heels luulcr the hollow of the foot, and 
soles of hirch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches standing by the road- 
sides, each in its own little garden of Gethsemane. In the parish 
register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was 
christened or buried in that church; and a little sexton, with a rusty 
key, shows you the baptismal font or the coftin. In the church- 
yard are a few flowers and nn;ch green grass; and daily tlie shadow 
of the church spire witli its long, tai)eriiig (inger, counts tlio tombs, 
representing a dial-pLiie of human hfe on which the hours ami min- 
utes are the graves of men. The stones are ilat, and large, and low, 
and perha,ps sunken, like the roofs of old houses. On some are 
armorial bearings; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, 
with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep 
with their heads to the westward. Eacli held a lighted taper in his 
hand when he died, and in his coiafin were placed his little heart- 
treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that 
came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired 
old men to the only cradle they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of 
the dead mother were laid the little garments of the child that lived 
and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks 
from his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, 
" How quietly they rest, all the departed!" 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post 
by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden 
roof to keep olf the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the 
church steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down 
the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things 
from beneath his l)road-brimmed hat. lie speaks of lields and har- 
vests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He 
leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to tlie pleasant pastures of 
the Spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, like Melchizedek, both 
priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church 
pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, Avrapped in 
silk handkerchiefs, and Hstcu devoutly to the good man's words; 



92 TEEASUBES FllOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

but the young men, like Galileo, care for none of these things. They 
are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of tlie peasant girls, their 
number being an inchcation of the wearer's wealth. It may end in 
a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It 
shall be in Summer time, that there may be flowers, and in a south- 
ei-n province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the 
lark and of chanticleer are mingling in the clear morning air, and 
the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in the 
east, just as our eartlily bridegroom, with yellow hair, arises in the 
south. In the yard there is a soimd of voices and tramphng of 
hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to 
bear tlio bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and 
a garland of corn flowers aroimd his neck. Friends from the neigh- 
boring faiTQS come riding in, tlieir blue cloaks streaming to the mnd; 
and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a 
monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth 
from his chamber; and then to horse and away toward the village, 
where the bride already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the spokesman, followed by some half-dozen 
village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two 
groomsmen; and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, 
hah of them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind 
of baggage wagon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for 
these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a 
triumphal arch, adorned with flowers, and ribands, and evergreens; 
and, as they pass beneath it, the wedchng guests fire a salute, and 
the whole procession stops ; and straight from every pocket flies a 
black-jack, fiUed with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to 
hand among the crowd; pro%'isions are brought from the wagon, 
and, after eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves 
forward again, and at length draws near the house of tlie bride. 
Four heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his attend- 
ants are in the neighboring forest, and pray for hospitality. " How 
many are you?" asks the bride's father. "At least three hundred," 



TREASURES FHOM THE PROSE WORLD. 03 

is the answer; and to this the last rephes, "Yes, were you seven 
times as many, you should all be welcome ; and in token thereof 
receive this cup." Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale; 
and soon after the whole jovial company comes storming into the 
farmer's yard, and, riding around the Ma;y7)ole, which stands in the 
center, alight amid a grand salute and flourish of music. In the 
hall sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in 
her eye, like the Virgin Mary in old church paintings. She is 
dressed in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There 
is a gilded belt around her waist, and around her neck strings of 
golden beads, and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of 
wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoul- 
ders falls her flaxen hair, and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon 
the ground. thou good soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft 
heart. Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest arc not 
thine. They have been hired for this great day. Yet thou art 
rich, rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent 
love. The l)lessing of Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the parish 
priest as he joins together the hands of bride and bridegroom, say- 
ing in deep, solemn tones, " I give thee in marriage this damsel, to 
be thy wedded wife in all honor, and to share the half of thy bed, 
thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may pos- 
sess, or may inherit, and all the rights which upland's laws provide, 
and the holy King Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bride- 
groom and the i)nest. The spokesman delivers an oration after the 
ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations 
from the Bible, and invites the Savior to be present at this marriage 
feast, as he was at the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee. The ta- 
ble is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long ann, and the 
feast goes cheerily on. Punch and brandy pass round between the 
courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked while waiting for the 
next dish. They sit long at table; but, as all things must have an 
end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led 
off by the bride and the priest, who perform a solemn minuet 



94 TEEASURES FROM THE TllOSE WORLD. 

together. Not till ufter miclniglit comes the last dauce. The girls 
form a ring around the bride, to keep her from the hands of the mar- 
ried women, who endeavor to break through the magic circle, and 
seize their new sister. After long struggling they succeed ; and the 
crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her neck, and 
her bodice is unlaced, and her kirtle taken off, and, like a vestal 
virgin, clad all in white, she goes, — but it is to lier marriage 
chamber, not to her grave; and the wedding guests follow her with 
lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the north- 
ern clime. There is no long and lingering Spring, mifolding leaf 
and blossom one by one; no long and lingering Autunni, 2)ompous 
with many colored leaves and the glow of Indian Summers. But 
Winter and Summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The 
quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when Winter, from tlie 
folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, 
and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly 
rises above the horizon, or does not rise at jvll. The moon and the 
stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are pale and wan, 
and in the southern sky a red, fiory glow, Tis of sunset, burns along 
the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver 
moon, and mider the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the 
skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the soxmd of bells. 

And now the northern hghts begin to burn, faintly at hrst, like 
sunbeams playing on the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crim- 
son glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of 
night. The colors come and go, and change from crimson to gold, 
from gold to crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Two- 
fold from the zenith, east and west, flaines a fiery sword; and a 
broad band passes athwart the heavens like a Summer sunset. Soft 
puiiile clouds come sailing over the sky, and through tlieir vapory 
folds the winking stars shine W'hite as silver. With such pomp as 
this is merry Christmas ushered in — though only a single star her- 
alded the first Christmas. And in memory of that day the Swedish 
peasants dance on straw, and the peasant girls throw straws at the 



TREASUEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 05 

timbered roof of the hall, .'ind for every one that sticks in a crack shall 
a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas, indeed! 
For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but for 
Swedish peasants brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden bowls; and 
the great Yule-cake, crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with ap- 
l)lcs, and upholding a three-armed candle-stick over the Christmas 
feast. They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lun- 
kenfus, and the great Kiddar-Finke of Pingsdaga. 

And now the glad, leafy Midsummer, full of blossoms and the 
song of nightingales, is come I Saint John has taken the flowers 
and festival of heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May- 
pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses, and riljands streaming 
in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on the top to tell the village 
whence the wind cometh and whither it goetli. The sun does not 
set till 10 o'clock at night, and the children are at play in the streets 
an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may 
sit and read till midnight without a candle. Oh, how beautiful is 
the Summer night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded 
day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows, and refreshing 
coolness I How beautiful the long, mild twihght, which, like a sil- 
ver clasp, unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful the silent 
hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, 
beneath the starless sky of midnight! From the church tower in 
the public square the holl tolls the hour with a soft, musical chime, 
and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast 
on his horn for each stroke of the hammer, and four times to the 
four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants: 

"Ho! watchman, lio! 
Twelve i.s the clock I 
God keep our town 
From fire aud brand, 
And hostile hand! 
Twelve is the clock!" 

From his swallow's nest in tlie belfry he can see the sun all 
night long; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the 
warm midnight and hghts his pipe with a common buniing-glass. 



TREASUEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Scene at the Natural Bridge. 

Tlio scone opens -with n viinv of tlio gront Natural Bridge in 
Virginia. There arc three or four lads standing in the chiumel 
below, loolviug up with awe to that vast arch of unhewn rocks, 
which the Almighty bridged over tliose everlasting butmeuts, "when 
the morning stars smig together." The little piece of sky spanning 
those measiireless piers is fnll of stars, altlioiigh it is mid-day. 

It is almost five hundred feet from where they stand, up those 
peri>endicular bulwarks of limestone, to the key-rock of that vast 
arch, wliich ajiiiears to them only the size of a man's hand. The 
silence of death is rendered more impressive by the little stream 
tliat falls from rock to rock down the channel. The sun is dark- 
ened, and the boys have unconsciously uncovered their heads, as if 
standing in the presence-chamber of the Majesty of the Avhole 
eartli. 

At last this feeling begins to wear away; tliey begin to look 
around iJiem ; they find that otliers have been there before them. 
They see the names of Imndreds cut in tlie limestone hutments. 
A new feeling comes over their young hearts, and their knives are 
in their hands in an instant. "What man has done, man can do," 
is tlieir watchword, Avhile they draw themselves up and carve their 
names a foot above tliose of a hundred full-grown men who have 
been there before them. 

They are all satisfied with this feat of physical exertion, 
except one, whoso example iDustrates perfectly tlie forgotten truth, 
tliat tliere is no royal road to intellectual eminence. This ambi- 
tious youth sees a name just above his reach — a name that will be 
green in the memory of tlie world, when those of Alexander, Cresar, 
and Bonaparte shall be lost in oblivion. It was the name of 
Washington. 

Before he marched witli Braddock to that fatal field, he had 
been there, and left his name a foot above all his predecessors. It 



TllEASUEES FKOM THE TROSE WORLD. 97 

was a glorious thought for a boy to write his name side hy sido 
with that of tho great father of his country. He grasped his knife 
with a firmer hand, and dinging to a httle jutting crag, he cuts a 
gain into the hniestonc, about a foot above where he stands ; he then 
reaches up and cuts- another for his hands. 

'Tis a dangerous adventure; but as he puts his feet and hands 
into those gains, and draws himself up carefully to his full Icngtli, 
he finds himself a foot above every name chronicled in that mighty 
wall. While his companions are regarding him with concern and 
admiration, he cuts his name in rude capitals, large and deep into 
that flinty album. 

llis knife is still in his hand, and strength in his sinews, and 
a now created aspiration in his heart. Again he cuts another niche, 
and again he carves his name in larger cai)itals. This is not enough. 
Heedless of tho entreaties of his companions, he cuts and climbs 
again. The gradations of his ascending scale grow wider apart. 
He measures his length at every gain he cuts. Tho voices of his 
friends wax weaker and weaker, till their words are finally lost on 
his ear. 

He now, for the first time, cast a look beneath him. Had that 
glance lasted a moment, that moment would have been his last. 
He clings with a convulsive shudder to his little niche in the rock. 
He is faint from severe exertion, and trembling from the snddcn 
view of tho dreadful destruction to which he is exposed. His kiiil'c! 
is worn half Avay to tho liaft. He can licar tho voices, Imt not the 
words, of his terror-stricken companions below! Whiit a mom(>ut! 
What a meager chance to escape destruction ! There is no retrat;ing 
Ills steps. It is impossi1)le to put his liand into the same niclie 
with his feet, and retain his slender liold a moment. 

His companions instantly perceive this new and fearful di- 
lemma, and await his faU with emotions that "freeze their youug 
blood." He is too high, too faint, to ask for his father and mother, 
and brothers and sisters, to come and witness or avert his destruc- 
tion. But one of his companions anticipates his desire. Swift as 

7 



08 TREASUIIES FBOM THE PROSE WOELD. 

tlio AViiul, \w liouiulvS down the oliauiu'l, luul tlio situation of tlio 
ill-fatotl boy is tolil \\i>on his father's hearthstone. 

Minutes of almost i-ternal lengtli roll on, and there are hundreds 
standing in that roeky channel, and hundreds on the bridge above, 
all holding their breatli, and awaiting tlio fearful catastrophe. The 
poor boy hoars tho hum of now and numerous voices both above 
and below. ITo can distinguish tho tones oi his father, who is 
shouting, with all tho energy of despair, " William! William! don't 
look down! Your motlior, and Henry, and Harriet, are all here, 
praying for you ! Don't look down! Keep your eye towards tlie 
top!" 

The boy didn't \oo\i down. His eyo is fixed like a flint towards 
heaven, and his young heart on Him who reigns there. He grasps 
again his knife. ■ Ho cuts another niche, and another foot is added 
ti> the hundreds that ren\ove him from the reach of human heli> 
from below! How carefully ho uses his wasting blade! How 
anxiously he selects the softest places in that vast pier! How he 
avi>ids every llinty grain ! How ho economizes his physical powers, 
resting a moment at each gain ho cuts! How every motion is 
watched from below! There stand his father, mother, brotlier, 
ami sister, on tlie very spot where, if he falls, he will not fall 
alone. 

Tho sun is half way down tlie west. The lad has made fifty 
additional niches in tliat mighty wall, and now finds himself dii-octly 
under tlie middle of that vast arch of rocks, earth, and trees. He 
must cut his way in a new direction, to get from under this over- 
hanging mountain. The inspiration of hope is dying in his bosom; 
its vital heat is fed by the increasing shouts of hundreds, perched 
upon cliffs and trees, and others Avho stand with ropes in tlieir 
hands on tlio bridge above, or with ladders below. 

Fifty more gains must be cut before the longest rope can reach 
him. His wasting blade strikes again into the limestone. The boy 
is emerging painfully, foot by foot, from under that lofty arch. 
Spliced ropes are ready in tho hands of tliose who are leaning over 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 90 

the outer ctlfj;c of the bridge. Two inimitcs more and all must be 
over. The blade is worn to the last half inch. The boy's head 
reels; his eyes are starting from their sockets. His last hope is 
dying in his heart; his hfe must hang on the next gain he cuts. 
That niche is the last. 

At the last faint gash ho makes, his knife— his faitliful knife — 
falls from his little nerveless hand, and ringing along the precipice, 
falls at his mother's feet. An involuntary groan of despair runs 
like a death-knoll tiirough the channel below, and all is still as the 
grave. At the height of nearly three hundred feet, the devoted 
boy lifts his hopeless heart, and closes his eyes to commend his 
soul to God. 

'Tis but a moment — there! one foot swings off — he is reehng — 
trembling — toppling over into eternity! Hark! a shout falls on his 
ear from above. The man who is lying with half his length over 
the bridge has caught a glimpse of the boy's head and shoulders. 
Quick as thought the noosed rope is within reach of the sinking 
youth. No one breathes. With a faint convulsive effort, the 
swooning boy drops his arms into the noose. Darkness comes over 
him, and with the words God — Mother — the tightening rope lifts 
him out of his last sliallow niche. Not a lip moves while he is 
dangling over that fearful abyss; but when a sturdy Virginian 
reaches down and draws up the lad, and holds him up in his arms 
l)efore the tearful, breathless multitude, such shouting — such leap- 
ing and weeping for joy — never greeted the ear of a human being 
so recovered from the yawning gulf of eternity. 




100 TREASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 



The Personality and Uses of a Laugh. 

I AYOiild be ANilling to choose my frieud by the quality of his 
laugh, and abide tlie issue. A glad, gushiug outflow, a (.•loar, 
lingiug, mellow note of the soul, as surely indicates a genial and 
genuine nature as the rainbow in the dew-di-op heralds the morning 
sun, or the frail flower in the ^vilderness beti-ays the zephyr-tossed 
seed of tlie parterre. 

A laugh is one of God's truths. It tolerates no disguises. 
Falsehood may train its voice to flow in softest cadences, its hps 
to wreathe into smiles of sui-passing sweetness, its face 

■ To put on 

That look we trust in ," 

but its laugh will betray the mockery. Who has not started and 
shuddered at the hollow "he-he-he!" of some velvet-voiced 
Mephistopheles, whose sinuous fascinations, without this note of 
warning, this premonitory rattle, might have boimd the soul with a 
sti-Qug spell! 

Leave nature alone. If she is noble, her broadest expression 
will soon tone itself down to fine accordance with life's earnestness : 
if she is base, no silken interweavings can keep out of sight her 
ugly head of discord. If we put a laugh into straight-jacket and 
leiuling-strings, it becomes an abortion; if we attempt to refine it, 
we destroy its pui-e, mellifluent ring; if we suppress a laugh, it 
struggles and ilies on tlie heart, and the place where it hes is apt 
ever after to be weak and ^-uhlerable. No, laugh truly, as you 
would speak truly, and both the inner and the outer man will 
rejoice. A ftxU, spontaneous outburst opens all the dehcate valves 
of being, and ghdes a subtle oil through aU its comphcated 
mechanism. 

Laugh heartily, if yoit would keep the dew of your youth. 
Thei-e is no need to lay our girlhood and boyhood so doggedly 
down upon the altar of sacrifice as we toil up life's moimtain. 
Dear, innocent children, hfting their dewy eyes and fair foreheads 



TEEASURE8 FliOM THE PllOSE WORLD. 101 

to the benedictions of angels, prattling and gamboling because it 
is a great joy to live, should flit like sunbeams among the stern- 
faced and stalwart. Young men and maidens should walk with 
strong, elastic tread, and chcerfid voices among the weak and 
uncertain. White hairs should be no more the insignia of ago, but 
the crown of ripe and perennial youth. 

Laugh for your beauty. The joyous carry a fountain of hght 
in their eyes, and round into rosy dimples where the echoes of 
gladness play at "hide-and-go-seek." Your "lean and hungry 
Cassius" is never betrayed into a laugh, and his smile is more 
cadaverous than his despair. 

Laugh if you would live. He only exists who drags his days 
after him like a massive chain, asking sympathy with uphfted eye- 
brows and weak uttei-ancc as the beggar asks alms. Better die, for 
your own sake and the world's sake, than to pervert the uses and 
graces and dignities of life. 

Make your own sunshine and your own music, keep your heart 
open to the smile of the good Father, and brave all things. 

"Care to our coffin adds a nail, no dou))t, 
And every laiigh 8o merry draws one out." 



Omens. 



Poict. I hope we shall have another good day to-morrow, for 
the clouds are red in the west. 

Phys. I have no doubt of it, for the red has a tint of pui*ple. 

Hal. Do you know why this tint portends fine weather? 

rhijs. The air when dry, I believe, refracts more red, or heat- 
making rays; and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, they are 
again reflected in the horizon. I have observed generally a coppery 
or yellow sunset to foretell rain; but, as an indication of wet 
weather approaching, nothing is more certain than a halo round 
the moon, which is produced by the precipitated water; and the 
larger the circle, the nearer the clouds, and, consequently, the more 
ready to fnll, 



102 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Hal. I have often observed that the old proverb is correct: 
"A rainbow in the morning is the shepherd's warning. A rain- 
bow at night is the shepherd's dehght." Can you explain tliis 
omen ? 

Phijs. A rainbow can only occur when tlie clouds containing 
or depositing the rain are opposite to tlie sun, — and in the evening 
the rainbow is in the east, and in the morning in the west; and as 
our heavy rains in this climate are usually broiight by the westerly 
•wind, a rainbow in the west indicates tliat the bad weather is on 
the road, by tlie wind, to us; whereas the rainbow in the east 
proves that tlie rain in these clouds is passing from us. 

Poivt. I have often observed that when the swallows fly high, 
fine weather is to be expected or continued; but when they fly low, 
and close to the ground, rain is almost surely approaching. Can 
you account for this? 

Hal. SwaUows follow tlie flies and gnats, and flies and gnats 
usually delight in warm strata of air ; and as warm air is lighter, 
and usually nioister tlian cold air, when tlie warm strata of air are 
higher, there is less chance of moisture being thrown down from 
tliem by tlie mixture ■with cold air; but when the warm and moist 
air is close to the surface, it is almost certain that, as the cold air 
flows down into it, a deposition of water will take place. 

Foiit. I have often seen sea-gulls assemble on the land, and 
have almost always observed that very stonny and rainy weather 
was approaching. I conclude that these animals, sensible of a 
current of air approaching from the ocean, retire to the land to 
shelter themselves from the storm. 

Oni, No such thing. The storm is their element; and the 
little petrel enjoys the heaviest gaJe, because, living on the smaller 
sea insect, he is sure to find his food in the spray of a heavy 
wave, and you may see him flitting above the edge of the highest 
surge. I believe that the reason of this migration of sea-gulls and 
other sea-birds to the land, is tlieir security of finding food ; and 
they may be obsen-ed, at this time, feeding greedily on tlie earth- 
worms and larvie, driven out of the ground by severe floods; and 



TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 103 

the fisli, on which they prey in fine weather in the sea, leave the 
surface and go deeper in storms. The search after food, as we 
agreed on a former occasion, is the principal cause why animals 
change their places. The different tribes of the wading birds 
always migrate when rain is about to take place ; and I remember 
once, in Italy, having been long waiting, in the end of March, for 
the arrival of the double snipe in the Campagne of Eome, a great 
flight appeared on the 3d of April, and the day after heavy rain set 
in, which greatly interfered with my sport. The vulture, upon 
the same principle, foUows armies ; and I have no doubt that the 
augury of the ancients was a good deal founded upon the obser- 
vation of the instincts of birds. There are many superstitions of 
the vulgar, owing to the same source. For anglers, in Spring, it 
is always unlucky to see single magpies, but two may be always 
regarded as a favorable omen; and the reason is, that in cold and 
stormy weather one magpie alone leaves the nest in search of food, 
the other remaining sitting upon the eggs or the young ones; but 
when two go out together, it is only when the weather is warm 
and mild, and favorable for fishing. 

Poict. The singular connections of causes and effects, to which 
you have jUst referred, make superstition less to be wondered at, 
particularly amongst the vulgar; and when two facts, naturally 
unconnected, have been accidentally coincident, it is not singular 
that this coincidence should have been observed and registered, 
and that omens of the most absurd kind should be trusted in. In 
the west of England, half a century ago, a particular hollow noise 
on the sea-coast was referred to a spirit or goblin called Bucca, and 
was supposed to foretell a shipwreck; the philosopher knows that 
sound travels much faster than currents in the air, and the sound 
always foretold the approach of a very heavy storm, which seldom 
takes place on that wild and rocky coast without a shipwreck on 
some part of its extensive shores, surrounded by the Atlantic. 

PJn/s. All the instances of omens you have mentioned are 
founded on reason ; but how can you explain such absurdities as 
Friday being an unlucky day, the terror of spilling salt, or meeting 
an old woman? I knew a man of very high dignity who was 



101 TliEASUKKS FIlOM TllK THOSE WORLD. 

0X000(1 inp:ly movod by tlioso omeus, ami who novor wont out shoot.- 
in{» wiiliout a hittoru's claw fastoncd to his hutUni-huli' by a ribaiul, 
Avhii'li ho iboui^bt. insured him good luck. 

r<>ict. 'VhcuVyixs \\v\l as the »>inons of do;ith-waU'hos, diviuus, 
etc., I'vo for tJio most part fouudod upon somo accidental coiucideuce ; 
bnt spillinj:; of salt, on jui uncommon occasion, may, as I liavo 
km>\vn it, arise from a disposition to apoplexy, slunvu by an incip- 
ient numbness in the hand, and may bo a fatal symptom; and 
persons dispirited by bad muons sometimes prepare the way for evil 
fortune, for coulUlonco in success is a givat moans of insurinti it. 
The drenm of l>rutns b(>fore the liold of Ph:irsali;i probably pro- 
duced a species i>f irresohition and despi>ndency which was tho 
principal cause of his losiii!^ (lie bjittJe; luul 1 have heard tliat tho 
ilhisirious sportsman lo whom you referred just now, was always 
obsiM-ved to shoot ill, because he shot carelessly, after one of Ins 
dispiriting!; iMuens. 

Hal. 1 have in life met with a few thiuj^s which 1 have found 
it impossible to explain, eitlier by chance coincidences or by natural 
comiections, and 1 have kiu>\vn minds of a very superior class 
affected by them ]H>rsons in tlu> habit of reasoninjjf deeply and 
profomuUy. 

rinis. In my opinion, profound minds are tho most likely 
to think lii;:htly of tho resources of human reason ; and it is tho 
port superficial thinker who is generally strongest in every kind of 
unbohef. Tlie doej) philosi^phor sees chains of causes and effects 
so wiuuleifidly and strangely linked together, that he is usiudly the 
last person io decade upon the impossibility of any two series of events 
being made independent of each other; and in science so many 
natural miracles, as it wei-o, have been brought to light, such as 
thi^ fall of stones froiu meteors in the atmosphere, the disarming a 
thuniler-doud by a metallic [nnnt. tho production of tire from ice by 
a metal white as silver, and the referring certain laws of motion of 
the sea to tJie moon, that the physical inquirer is seldom disposed 
to assert conlidontJy on any abstruse subjects belonging to tho 
onlor of natural things, and still loss so those relating to tJie more 
mysterious relations oi moral events and intellectual natures. 




JOHN RUSKIN. 



TREASUBES EEOM THE THOSE WORLD . 105 



JOHN RUSKIN. 



JOHN RUSKIN was born in London, England, February, 
1819. Hiiving inhoritcd a largo fortune from his father, 
he was enabled to make complete preparation for his life 
work and to devote his entire time to art and literature. In 
1 842, he graduated at Oxford, and further prepared himself 
by studying art and learning water-color painting. Ilis lit- 
erary work may be recorded as follows: In ISJV.), he gaincul 
a prize for a poem entitled Salsetto Elpluuitd; in 1841), 
Modcrji Painters: Tlwir Superiority in the Art of Landscape 
Painting to all the Ancient Masters. The fifth volume of this 
treatise was published in 1860. 

Tlic Seven Lamps of Architecture appeared in 1849; 
Pre-Raphaelitism and The Kimj of the Golden Iliver, in 1851 ; 
The Stones of Venice, 1851-3; Lectures on Architecture and 
Painting, 1854:', Elements af Drawing, 1857; The Political 
Economy qf Art, 1858 ; The Two Paths, 1859 ; Unto This Last, 
18G2 ; Sesame and Lilies, 1864; The Ethics of the Dust, 1865 ; 
The Crown of Wild Olive, 1866; and The Queen of the Air, 
1869. lie has also written extensively for periodicals. 

In 1867 he was appointed Rede Lecturer at Cambridge, 
and in 1869 was elected Professor of Fine Arts at Oxford. 
At Oxford he endowed a chair of drawing. He is also prom- 
inent as a popular public speaker. 

Those who love the true and beautiful in Nature and Art, 
and who admire an attractive statement of pure and enno- 
bling thoughts, will be amply repaid for their time in reading 
Buskin, 



106 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Precipices of the Alps. 

Dark in color, robed with everlasting mourning, forever totter- 
ing like a great fortress shaken by war, fearful as much in their 
weakness as in their strength, and yet gathered after every faU into 
darker frowns and unhumiliating threatening; forever incapable of 
comfort or healing from herb or flower, nourishing no root in their 
crevices, touched by no hve of life on buttress or ledge, but to the 
utmost desolate; knowing no shaking of leaves in the ^vind, nor of 
grass beside the stream — no other motion but their own mortal 
shivering, the dreadful crumbling of atom from atom in their cor- 
rupting stones; knowing no sound of living voice or living tread, 
cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the marmot's cry; haunted 
only by uninterrupted echoes from afar off, wandering hither and 
thither among their walls unable to escape, and by the hiss of 
angry torrents, and sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near 
the face of them, and sweeps, frightened, back from under their 
shadow into the gulf of air; and sometimes, when the echo has. 
fainted, and the wind has carried the sound of the torrent away, 
and the bird has vanished, and the moldering stones are still for a 
little time — a brown moth, opening and shutting its wings upon a 
grain of dust, may be the only thing that moves or feels in all the 
waste of weary precipice darkening five thousand feet of the blue 
depth of heaven. 



The Fall of the Leaf. 

If ever, in Autumn, a pensiveness falls upon us as the leaves 
drift by in their fading, may we not wisely look up in hope to their 
mighty monuments? Behold how fair, how far prolonged in arch 
and aisle, the avenues of the valleys, the fringes of the hills ! So 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 107 

stately — so eternal; the joy of man, the comfort of all hving creat- 
ures, the glory of the earth — they are but the monuments of those 
poor leaves that flit faintly past us to die. Let them not pass 
without our understanding their last counsel and example; that we 
also, careless of monument by the grave, may build it in the world 
— monument by which men may be taught to remember, not where 
we died, but where we hved. 



The Sky, 



Not long ago I was slowly descending the carriage road after 
you leave Albano. It had been wild weather when I left Eome, and 
all across the Campagna the clouds were sweeping in sulphurous 
blue, with a clap of thunder or two, and breaking gleams of sun 
along the Claudian aqueduct, lighting up its arches like the bridge 
of chaos. But as I chmbed the long slope of the Alban mount, the 
storm swept finally to the north, and the noble outline of the domes 
of Albano and the gracefid darkness of its ilex grove rose against 
pure streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upjjer sky gradually 
flushing through the last fragments of rain-cloud, in deep palpitating 
azure, half ether and half dew. The noon-day sun came slanting 
down the rocky slopes of La Kicca, and its masses of entangled and 
tall fohage, whose autumnal tints were mixed with the wet verdure 
of a thousand evergreens, were penetrated with it as with rain. I 
cannot call it color, it was conflagration. Purple, and crimson and 
scarlet, like the curtains of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing trees 
sank into the valley in showers of light, every separate leaf quivering 
with buoyant and burning hfe; each, as it turned to reflect or to 
transmit the sunbeam, first a torch and then an emerald. Far up 
into the recesses of the valley, the green vistas, arched like the hol- 
lows of mighty waves of some crystalhne sea, "vvith the arbutus 
flowers dashed along their flanks for foam, and silver flakes of 



108 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

orange spray tossed into the air around them, breaking over the 
gray walls of rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kind- 
hng alternately as the weak wind hfted and let them fall. Every 
blade of grass burned hke the golden floor of heaven opening in 
sudden gleams as the foHage broke and closed above it, as sheet 
lightning opens in a cloud at sunset the motionless masses of dark 
rock — dark, though flushed ^\ith scarlet hchcn, casting their quiet 
shadows across its restless radiance, the fountain underneath them 
filling its marble hollow with blue mist and fitful sound, and, over 
all, — the multitudinous bars of amber and rose, the sacred clouds 
that have no darkness, and only exist to illumine, were seen in in- 
tervals between the solemn and orbed repose of the stone pines, 
passing to lose themselves in the last, white, blinding luster of the 
measureless line where the Campagna melted into the blaze of the sea. 



Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as 
far away? By no means. Look at the clouds and watch the deh- 
cate sculpture of their alabaster sides, and the rounded luster of 
their magnificent rolling. They are meant to be beheld far away : 
they were shaped for their place high above your head: approach 
tliem and they fuse into vague mists, or whirl away in fierce frag- 
ments of thunderous vapor. Look at the crest of the Alp from tlie 
far away plains over which its Ught is cast, whence human souls 
have communed with it by their myriads. It was built for its place 
in the far off sky: approach it, and as the soimd of the voice of man 
dies away about its foundations, and the tide of human life is met 
at last by the eteruixl "Here shall thy waves be stayed," the glory 
of its aspect fades into blanched f earf ulness : its purple walls are 
rent into grisly rocks, its silver fret-work saddened into wasting 
snow: the storm-brands of ages are on its breast, the ashes of its 
own ruin lie solemnly on its white raiment. 

If you desire to perceive the great harmonies of the form of a mcky 
mountain, you must not ascend upon its sides. All there is disorder 
and accident, or seems so, Eetire from it, and as your eye commands 



TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 109 

it more and more, you see the niined mountaiu world with a wider 
glance; behold! dim sympathies begin to busy themselves in the 
disjointed mass: line binds itself into stealthy fellowship with hne: 
group by group the helpless fragments gather themselves into 
ordered companies : new captains of hosts, and masses of battalions 
become visible one by one; and far away answers of foot to foot 
and of bone to bone, until the powerless is seen risen up with girded 
loins, and not one piece of all the unregarded heap can now be 
spared from the mystic whole. 



The Old Churchyard. 

The next day, the day of the resurrection, rose glorious from 
its sepulchre of sea-fog and drizzle. It had poured all night long, 
but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air was 
the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with that 
peculiar luster which follows the weeping which has endured its 
appointed night. The larks were at it again, singing as if their 
hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding exultation 
over the song of the future; for their nests beneath hoarded a wealth 
of larks for Summers to come. Especially about the old churchyard, 
half buried in the ancient trees of Lossic House, the birds that day 
were jubilant; their throats seemed too narrow to let out the joyful 
air that filled all their hoDow bones and quills ; they sang as if they 
must sing or choke with too much gladness. Beyond the short 
spire and its shining cock rose the balls and stars and arrowy 
vanes of the house, glittering in gold and sunshine. The inward 
hush of the resurrection, broken only by the prophetic birds, the 
poets of the groaning and travailing creation, held time and space 
as in a trance ; and the center from which radiated both the hush 
and the caroling expectation seemed to Alexander Graham to be 
the churchyard in which he was now walking iu the cool of the 



Il6 TEEASIJEES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

moruing. It was more carefully kept tliuu most Scottish cliiirch- 
yarcls, and yet was not too trim ; nature bad a word in the affair — 
was allowed her part of mourning in long grass and moss and the 
crumbling away of stone. The wbolesomeness of decay, which 
both in nature and humanity is but the miry road back to hfe, was 
not unrecognized here, there was nothing of the hideous attempt 
to hide death in the garments of life. The master walked about 
gently, now stopping to read some well-known inscription, and 
ponder for a moment over the words; and now^ wandering across 
the stoneless mounds, content to be forgotten by all but those who 
loved the departed. At length he seated himself on a slab by the 
side of the moimd that rose but yesterday ; it was sculptured with 
symbols of decay — needless, surely, where the originals lay about 
the mouth of every ncAvly-opencd grave, as surely ill befitting the 
precincts of a church whose indwelhng gospel is of life \'ictorious 
over death! "What are these stones," he said to himself, "but 
monuments to obli-sdon!" They are not memorials of the dead, but 
memorials of the forgetfulness of tlie living. How vain it is to 
send a poor forsaken name, hke tlae title-page of a lost book, down 
the careless stream of time! Let me serve my generation, and 
may God remember me ! 



Home. 



Society is marked by greater and smaller divisions, as into 
nations, communities, and famihes. A man is a member of the 
commonwealth, a smaller commimity, as a hamlet or city, and his 
family at the same time ; and the more perfectly all his duties to his 
family are chscharged, the more fully does he discharge his duties 
to the community and the nation ; for a good member of a family 
cannot be a bad member of the commonweiUth, for he that is faith- 
ful in what is least will also be faithful in what is greater. Indeed, 



TEEASUEES PEOM THE PROSE WOELD. Ill 

the more perfectly a man fulfills all his domestic duties, the more 
perfectly, in that very act, has he discharged his duty to the 
whole; for the whole is made up of parts, and its health depends 
entirely upon the health of the various parts. There are, of course, 
general as well as specific duties ; but the more conscientious a man 
is in the discharge of specific duties, the more ready will he be to 
perform those that are general; and we beheve that the converse of 
this will be found equally true, and that those who have least regard 
for home — who have, indeed, no home, no domestic circle — are the 
worst citizens. This they may not be apparently; they may not 
break the laws, nor do anything to call down upon them censure 
from the community, and yet, in the secret and almost unconscious 
dissemination of demorahzing principles, may be doing a work far 
more destructive of the public good than if they had committed a 
robbery. 

We always feel pain when we hear a yoimg man speak lightly 
of home, and talk carelessly, or it may be with sportive ridicule, 
of the "old man," and the "old woman," as if they were of but 
little consequence. We mark it as a bad indication, and feel that 
the feet of that young man are treading upon dangerous ground. 
His home education may not have been of the best kind, nor may 
home influences have reached his higher and better feehngs ; but he 
is at least old enough now to understand the causes, and to seek 
rather to bring into his home all that it needs to render it more at- 
tractive, than to estrange himself from it, and expose its defects. 

Instances of this kind are not of very frequent occurrence. 
Home has its charms for nearly all, and the very name comes with 
a blessing to the spirit. This, however, is more the case with those 
who have been separated from it, than it is with those who yet re- 
main in the old homestead, with parents, brothers, and sisters as 
their friends and companions. 

The earnest love of home, felt by 2iearly aU who have been 
compelled to leave that pleasant place, is a feehng that should 
be tenderly cherished, and this love should be kept alive 
by associations that have in them as j)erfect a resemblance of 



112 TKEASURES FROM THE PROSE WOKLD. 

homo as it is possible to obtain. It is for tliis reason that it is 
bail forti yoiuii:: man to board in a large liotel, •where there is noth- 
ing in Avhich there is even an image of the home circle. Each has 
liis separate chamber; but that is not home; all meet togetlier at 
the common table; but there is no home feeling there, with its many 
sweet reciprocations. The meal completed, all separate, each to his 
individual pursuit or pleasure. There is a parlor, it is true ; but 
there are no family gatherings there. One and another sit tliere, 
as inclination prompts; but each sits alone, busy with liis own 
tlioughts. All this is a poor substitute for home. And yet it offers 
its attractions to some. A young man in a hotel has more freedom 
than in a family or private boarding house. He comes in and 
goes oiit unobserved ; there is no one to say to him, "why?" or 
"wherefore?" But this is a dtrngerous freedom, and one which no 
young man should desire. 

But mere negative e^dls, so to speak, are not the worst 
that beset a young man who unwisely chooses a pubhc hotel as a 
place of boarding. He is much more exposed to temptations there 
than in a private boanhng house or at home. Men of hceutious 
habits, in most cases, select hotels as boarchng places ; and such 
rarely scruple to offer to the ardent minds of yoimg men, with 
whom tliey happen to ftiU in company, those allurements that are 
most likely to lead them away from virtue. And, besides this, there 
being no evening home circle in a hotel, a young man who is not 
engaged earnestly in some pursuit that occupies his hours of leisure 
from Imsiness, has notliing to keep him there, but is forced to seek 
for something to interest his mind elsewhere, and is, in consequence, 
more open to tei' tation. 

Home is man's true place. Every man should have a home. 
Here his first duties he, and here he finds the strength by which he 
is able successfully to combat in hfe's temptations. Happy is that 
yoimg man who is still blessed with a home — who has his mother's 
counsel and the pure love of sisters to strengthen and cheer him 
amid hfe's opening combats. 



TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 118 



Parents. 

Although tho attainment of mature age takes away the obHga- 
tion of obedience to parents, as well as the right of dependence upon 
them, it should lessen in no way a young man's deference, respect, 
or affection. For twenty-one years, or from the earliest period of 
infancy, through childhood and youth, up to mature age, his parents 
have felt and thought, and labored for him. They have watched 
over his pillow, anxiously, in sickness; they have, with tho most 
unselfish love, earnestly sought his good in everything, even to the 
extent of much self-doniiil; and can he now offer them less than 
deference, respect, and affection? No; surely no young man will 
withhold this. 

Let us show you a picture. Do you see that feeble infant 
asleep on its mother's bosom ? How helpless it lies ! How depend- 
ent it is upon others for everything ! The neglect of a moment 
might cause some fatal injury to a being so entirely powerless. 
But that mother's love neither slumbers nor sleeps. It is ever 
around the fragile creature committed to her care, and she is ready 
to guard its life with her own. You once lay thus in your mother's 
arms, and she nourished your helpless infancy thus at her bosom. 
She watched over you, loved you, protected and defended you; and 
all was from love, — deep, pure, fervent love, — tlie first love and tho 
most unselfish love that ever has or ever will bless you in this life, 
for it asked for and expected no return. A moth, s luve! — it is tho 
most perfect inllection of tho love of God ever thrown back from 
the mirror of a human heart. 

Here is another picture. A mother sits in grief, and her boy, 
now no longer an infant, stands in sullen disol)odience by her side. 
She has striven to correct his faults for his own good, iuid in love 
reproved him ; but he would not regard her admonitions. Again 
and again she has sought, by gentle urgings, to direct him to 

8 



114 TBEASUEES FROM THE TIIOSE WOULD. 

gooil; but all has boon in vain, and .sho now resorts to pmiisliment 
tliat is far more painful to hor than to her child. The scono is changed. 
See -where sho sits iuiw, alone, bitterly weeping. There is an 
image in her mind, and but one, that obscures all the rest; it is the 
image of hor sutTering child — sulYering by her hand! Iler breast 
labors heavily, her lioart is oppressed — she feels deep anguish of 
spirit. But slu^ lias done lu>r duty, painful though it has been, 
and that sustains hor. You Avero once ai boy like that; and thus 
ycMir own mother has grieved over your disobedience, and felt ilie 
sanu> bitterness of spirit. And love for you was the cause. Can 
you ever forgot tliis? 

Do you soo that darkonod chamber? T\v the bod of sickness 
sits a pale watcher, and (lioro are tears upon hor ohook. Day and 
night, for nearly a week, has she sat by the bod, or moved with 
lUHsoloss foot about the room. She has not taken olT her gai-monts 
during the time; uov has sho joined the family at tlieir regular 
meals. Who is the object of all this deep solicitude? It is her 
child. The hand of sickness is upcui him, and ho has drawn near 
to the gates of death. In her solicitude she forgets even herself. 
She has but one thought, and that is for her offspring. Her love, 
her care, her anxious hopes are at length rewarded. The destroyer 
passes by and leaves her hor child. Thus has your motlior watched, 
day by day aaul night by night, beside your cmich of sickness. 
Never forget tliis, young man. Forgot every other obligation, but 
never forgot how much yoix owe your mother! You can never 
know a thousandth part of what sho has endured Un- your sake; and 
ni>w, in hoi' old ago, all sho asks is that yi>u will love hor — not 
with the love sho still boars to you; she does not expect that — and 
care for hor, that life's sunsliine may still come tlirough the win- 
dows and ovov the tlireshold of her dwelling. 

And with no les^ of respect and affection should a. young man 
tJiink of his father. Not until his own life-trials come on will he 
fully understand how much he owes his fatJior. It is no light task 
which a man takes upon himself — tliat of sustaining, by his single 
efforts, a whole family, aaid sustaining tliem iu comfort, and per- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE VVORrj). H/J 

haps ill luxury. Voii liiivc jui (idiiciiiiou iliiiti (jiuibleH you to iakc ii 
rcHpcctablo position in society; you ]i;i,v(! a grouiidworli of {j^ood 
principles; luibiis of indui-iiry; in fact, all that !i, yonui,' iiiaii need ask 
lor ill order that ho niiiy rise in the world; and for these you are 
indebted to your father. "J^) give you such advantages cost him 
labor, self-denial, and much anxious thought. Many times, during 
the struggle to sustain his family, has ho been pressed down with 
worldly diOiculties, and almost ready to despair. Ilo has seen his 
last dollar, it may be, leave his hand, without knowing certainly 
where the next Was to come from. But still his love for his children 
has urged liim on, and by new and more vigorous efforts he has 
overcome the dilliculties by which he was surrounded. 

A young man should think often of these things, and let them 
influence his condu(;t to his i)iirents. There will come a time in life 
when such tlioughts will force themselves upon him; but tli(;se 
thoughts may couk; too late. 

Toward parents the dej)()rtment sliould iilways be deferential 
and kind. A young man, who properly reflects upon the new rela- 
tion now existing between them and himself, will iiiiturally change 
his manner of address, and be far more guarded than he was before 
he arrived of age, lest ho say or do anything that might cause them 
to feel that ho now considered himself beyond their control. When 
they advise, he should consider well what they say; and, if compelled 
to differ from tlieni, he should carefully explain the reason, and 
show truly his regret at not b(!iiig able to act from their judgment 
of the matter. As a general thing, however, he will find their ad- 
vice better than the counsels of his own scarcely fledged reason, and 
he will do well seriously to deliberate upon it before taking his own 
course. 

Above all, let no unkind word ever pass your lips. Nothing 
stings so, nothing so d(!('ply wounds the heart of a panint, as harsh 
words from his children who have grown up and become men and 
women. Almost as bad as this is neglect. 

The older your fjither and mother grow, the narrower becomes 
the sphere of their hopes and wishes until, at length, all thought 



116 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

aiul all all'ectious are centered on their chiltlren. But while this is 
going on, the children's minds are becoming more and more ab- 
sorbed in the cares, duties, and new affections of hfe, until their 
parents are almost forgotten. Forewarned of this tendency, let 
every one strive against it, lest he wound by neglect, either seeming 
or real, a heart that has loved him from hfe's earhest dawn up to 
the present moment. 

But not alone in deference, respect, and marks of affection lie 
the hmits of a young man's duties to his parents. He shoukl en- 
deavor to take up and bear for them, if too heavy for their dechning 
strength, some of the burdens that oppress them. He should particu- 
hirly consider his father, and see if tlie entire support of the family 
that yet remains upon his hands does not tax his efforts too far; 
and if such bo the case, he shoukl deny himself almost anything, in 
order to render some aid. For years, he has been receiving all 
that he required, and it is now but fair that he should begin to 
make some return. 

How often do we see two or three sons, jiU in the receipt of 
good salaries, spending their money in self-indulgences, while their 
father is toiling on for his younger children, broken in health, per- 
haps chsappointed in his workUy prospects, and almost despairing 
in regard to the final result of all his efforts ! They come and go, and 
never think that anything is due from {Lem. It does not occur to 
them that if each were to deny himself the gratitieation of his desires to 
the extent of one hundred dollars a year, and the aggregate amount 
were placed in their father's hands to aid in supporting the family, it 
would take a moxmtain of care from his shoulders. Why is it that 
so many young men forget their duty in this important matter? 
One would think that no prompter was required here to remind 
them of their part. But it is not so. On the contrary, it is a thing 
of such rare occurrence for a son to practice self-denial for the sake 
of his parents, that, wherever it is seen, it forms the subject of 
remark. 

We often see parents who have enjoyed but few advantages 
themselves, and who, in consequence, are compelled to occupy lower 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 117 

and more laborious positions in the world, denying themselves 
many comforts and all the luxuries of life, in order to give their 
children the very best education possible for them to provide. We 
see these children growing up, and too often the first return they 
make is in the form of invidious comparisons between themselves 
and the parents to whom they owe almost everything ! In a little 
while they step into the world as men, and, becoming absorbed in 
its pursuits from various selfish ends, seem to forget entirely that 
their parents are still toihng on, enfeebled by years and over-exer- 
tion for their sakes, and with the very sweat of their time-worn 
brows digging out from the hard earth, so to speak, the scanty food 
and raiment required to sustain nature. Ah ! but this is a melan- 
choly sight. Could anything tell the sad tale of man's declension 
from good so eloquently as this? 

It is plainly the duty of every young man, whose parents are 
poor and compelled to labor beyond their strength, to aid them to 
the extent of his ability. They have borne the burden for him for 
many years. From their toil and self-denial he now has the means 
of rising higher in the world than they had the ability ever to rise ; 
but he is unjust and ungratefid if, in his eager efforts to advance 
too rapidly, he forget and neglect them. Nothing can excuse con- 
duct so unnatural, so cruel. 



The Spider and the Bee. 

Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a certain 
spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infin- 
ite numbers of flies, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his 
palace, like human bones before the cave of some giant. The 
avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes. 
After you had passed several courts you came to the center, 
wherein you might behold the constable himself, in his own lodg- 
ings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to 



118 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Bnlly out upon all occasions of prey or defense. In this mansion he 
had for sojuo time dwelt in peace and plenty, \Ndthout danger to his 
person by swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from 
below, when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a 
wandering bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass had 
discovered itself, and in ho wont, whore, expatiating a while, he 
at last happened to alight upon one of the outer walls of the spider's 
citadel, which, ^adding to the unequal weight, sunk down to the very 
foundation. Thrice he endeavored to force his passage, and thrice 
the center shook. The spider within, feohng the terrible conviU- 
sion, supposed at first tliat nature was approaching to her final dis- 
solution, or else that Beelzebub, with all his legions, was come to 
revenge the death of many thousands of his subjects whom his 
enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length valiantly 
resolved to issue forth and nieet his fate. Meanwhile the bee had 
acquitted himself of his toils, and posted securely at some distance, 
was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from the 
rugged rouinaiits of tlie ccW)web. By this time the spider was adven- 
tured out, when boholding the chasms, the ruins and dilapidations 
of his fortress, lu^ was very near at his wit's end; he stormed and 
swore like a madman, and swelled till ho was ready to burst. At 
length, casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes 
from events (for they knew each other by sight), "A plague spht 
you," said he, "for a giddy puppy; is it you, with a vengeance, that 
has made this htter here? Could you not look before you? Do 
you think I have nothing else to do but to mend and repair after 
you?" 

"Good words, friend," said the bee (having now pruned himself, 
and being ihsposod to be droll), "I'll give you my hand and word 
to come near your kennel no more; I was never in such a con- 
founded pickle since I was born." 

"Sirrah," replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old 
custom in our family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I 
slioidd come and teach you better manners." 

"I pray have patience," said the bee, "or you'll spend your 



TllEASUKES I'JIOM TJIB I'llOBE WOULD. ] If) 

substance, and for augbt I sec, yoii may stand in need of it all 
toward the repair of your house." 

"llogue, rogue," replied the spider, "yet methinks you should 
have luore respect to a person whom all the world allows to be so 
much your betters." 

"By my troth," said the bee, "the compiirison will ainount to 
a very good jest; and you will do me a favor to lot mo know tlio 
reasons that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful u, dispute." 

At this the spider, having swelled himself into the size and 
posture of a disputant, begiin his argument in the true spirit of 
controversy, with resolution to bo heartily scurrilous and angry; to 
urge on his own reasons without tlio least regard to the answers or 
objections of his opposite; and fully predetermined in his mind 
against all conviction. 

"Not to disparage myself," said he, "by the comparison with 
such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without liouse or home, 
without stock or inheritance? born to no possession of your own 
but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your livehhood is a univer- 
sal plunder upon nature ; a freebooter over fields and gardens ; and, 
for tlio sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily as a violet. 
Whereas, I am a domestic animal, furnished with a native stock 
within myself. This large castle (to show myimprovementsinthe 
mathematics) is all built with my own hands, and the materials 
extracted altogether out of my own person." 

"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least 
that I come honestly by my wings and my voice ; for then, it seems, 
1 am obliged to Heaven iilone for my Ihghts and my music; and 
Providence would never have bestowed on me two such gifts, with- 
out designing them for the noblest ends. I visit indeed all the 
flowers and blossoms of the field and garden; but whatever 1 collect 
thence enriches myself, without the least injury to their beauty, 
their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your skill in archi- 
tecture and other mathematics, I liavo little to say: in that build- 
ing of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labor and 
method enough ; but, by woeful experience for us both, it is too 



120 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

plain the materials are naught; and I hope you ■will henceforth 
take warning, and consider duration and matter, as well as 
method and art. You boast indeed of being obhged to no other 
creature, but of drawing and spinning out all from yourself; that 
is to say, if we may judge of the liquor in the vessel by what issues 
out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and poison in your 
breast; and though I would by no means lessen or disparage your 
genuine stock of either, yet I doiibt you are somewhat obliged, for 
an increase of both, to a little foreign assistance. Your inherent 
portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by sweepings exhaled 
from below ; and one insect furnishes you with a share of poison to 
destroy another. So that, in short, the question comes all to this : 
Whether is the nobler being of the two, that which by a lazy con- 
templation of four inches round, by an overweening pride, feeding 
and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom, 
producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb ; or that wluQh, 
by a miiversal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, 
and distinction of things, brings home honey and wax?" 





lAlUK I.YTTDN. 



TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 121 



LORD LYTTON. 



EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, afterward Lord Lytton, 
was born in May, 1805, and he died at Torquay on tlio 
1 8th of January, 1873. His remains now rest among England's 
honored dead in Westminster Abbey. Ho was the youngest 
son of General Bulwer, and his mother was of the ancient 
family of Lytton of Knebworth, in Hertfordshire. Upon his 
mother's death in 1843, the novelist succeeded to her valuable 
estate, and took the name Lytton. While our author was 
prominent in political matters, yet we shall record only his 
literary work. 

His lirst volume appeared in 1820, the work having been 
written between the ages of thirteen and llfteeu. In his next 
appearance, he was the successful candidate for a prize poem 
in Cambridge University ; in 1825, he carried off a gold medal 
for the best English poem. In 1826 appeared a volume of 
miscellaneous verse, entitled Weeds and Wild Flowers, and 
in 1827, a poetical narrative, called O'Neill, or, The Rebel. 
From this time, his pen was never idle. From the appear- 
ance of his first volume till his death, "there was no reposing 
under the shade of his laurels — no living upon the resources 
of past reputation ; his foot was always in the arena, and his 
shield hung always in the list." His prominent works may 
be recorded as follows: In 1827 appeared Falkland, his first 
novel; 1828, Pelham, or, the Adventures of a Gentleman,- 182S, 
The Disowned; 1829, Devereux, A Novel, much more finished 
than his former works; 1830, Paul Clijj'ord, — below the 



122 TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 

avorngo of Ilia former workn ; 181)1, Tlic ISiamcse Twins, a 
poem satirical of fashion, of travelers, of politicians, London 
notoriety, etc. His political satire proved almost a failure, 
tlioufj;li showing; some vigorous thought. Returning to liction, 
he was more fortunate in ISJU in Kiifiene Aram, a Ston/ <>f 
English Life, in I S33 appeared his KikjIuikI (tiid tlic KmjUsii; 
1834, The PiUmms of the llhine. 

The Last Daijs of Pompeii, one of his greatest works, 
and tlui DUO from which we have made our chief soiection, 
appeared in 1835. Then followed in quick succession liienzi, 
the Jjastofthe Tribunes, The Crisis, Ernest Mai trarers, A lire, 
or TIte M}/steries, Athens, and luimerous others, all wortliy 
of mention. We will only record Night and Morning, followt'd 
hy Ihti/ and Night, Lights and Sliadoirs, GUjnnwr and Qlooni. 

The limit of our sketch forbids further notice of Lord 
Lytton's productions. It would require volumes to make 
proper mention of his writings, with full notes. "Ho was at 
the head of the English literature, with the single exception of 
]\[r. Carlyle ; his works were popular over all Europe, and his 
fertility and iudusiry seemed unabated. His son, the pri'scnt 
Lord Jjytton, has, with a just pride, said of his father; 
'Whether as an author, standing apart from nil literary 
cliques and coteries, or as a politician, never wliolly subject 
to the exclusive dictation of any political party, he always 
tliought and acted in sympathy with every popular aspiration 
for the political, social and intellectual im])rovenunit of the 
whole nationiil life.' " Lord Lytton left an unlinished ro- 
nninco, Paiisanias, the Spartan, which was published by his 
son iu 1870. 



TBEASUBES I'BOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 123 



Last Days of Pompeii. 

Lord Lytton's " IliHtorical Romance," from which this Bclection is taken, ia ex- 
tremely interesting. Tho doHcription is the work of Lytton's fancy, but is founded 
upon tho destruction of llerculanoum and Poiniicil Ijy an eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, 
A. D. 7!). In 1 750, nearly seventeen centuries alter its destruction, tho city of Poni- 
pcil-was disinterred from its silent tomb, all vivid with undimmed hues; its walls 
fresh as if painted yesterday. 

Tho scene is located in tho amphitheater, when tho cloud of lire and destruction 
was Rccn rolling toward the city. Glancus, an Athenian, had been accused of mur- 
dering the priest Apaecides, and was doomed to furnish amusement to the .spectators 
by fighting a hungry lion in the amphitheater. As the Athenian entered the arena,— 

All evidence of fear — aU fear itself — was gone. A red and 
haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features — he towered 
aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In the elastic heauty of his 
hmhs and form, iu his intent but unfrowniug hrow, in the high dis- 
dain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly, which 
spoke audibly, from his attitude, his hp, his eye,— he seemed the 
very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land — of 
the divinity of its worship — at once a hero and a god ! * * * 

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest 
posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining 
weapon raised on high, in tho faint hope that one well-directed 
thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for one), might 
penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe. But, to the 
unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even aware 
of the presence of the criminal. 

At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in tho 
arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impa- 
tient sighs; then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athe- 
nian. At half speed it circled round and round the space, turning 
its vast head from side to side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, 
as if seeking only some avenue of escape ; once or twice it endeav- 
ored to leap up the parapet that divided it from the audience, and, 
on failing, uttered rather a baffled howl than its deep-toned and 



124 TKEASUIiES I'liOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of wrath or hunger; its tail 
drooped along the sand instead of lashing its gaunt sides ; and its 
eye, though it wandered at times to Glauciis rolled again hstlessly 
from him. At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it crept 
with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself down to rest. 

[Just as the keeper is about to take the goad to vige the lion forth to the conflict, 
the priest Calenus appears and declares that the Athenian is innocent, and that Arba- 
ces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides. It was then thought to be a miracle that 
the lion liad spared the Athenian. In the midst of the confusion, the terrible reality 
of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius furnished an explanation of the lion's conduct. Omit- 
ting further description, we now quote from " Progress of the Destruction."] 

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the 
day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It resem- 
bled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the 
close and bhnd darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion 
as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesu^dus 
increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible 
beauty confined to the usual hues of fire ; no rainbow ever rivaled 
their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most 
azure dej)th of a southern sky — now of a li^dd and snake-hke green, 
darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enonnous serpent — 
now a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the col- 
umns of smoke, far and wide, and Hghting up the whole city from 
arch to arch — then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the 
ghost of their own life ! In the pauses of the showers, you heard 
the rumbling of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the 
tortured sea ; or lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest 
fear, the giinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through 
the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared 
to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint 
and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, striding across 
the gloom, hurhng one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly iiito 
the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the 
affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors v.'ere as the bodily 
forms of gigantic foes — the agents of terror and of death. 



Treasures from the prose world. 125 

The aslies iu many places were already kuee deep ; and the boil- 
ing showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano 
forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and 
suffocating vapor. In some places immense fragments of rock, 
hurled upon the houses' roofs, bore down along the street masses of 
confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed 
the way; and as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was 
more sensibly felt — the footing seemed to slide and creep — nor could 
chariot or htter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. 

Sometimes the huger stones striking against each other as they 
fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which 
caught whatever was combustible within their reach ; and along the 
plains beyond the city the darkness was now terribly relieved; for 
several houses, and even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at 
various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the solid 
gloom. To add to this partial rehef of the darkness, the citizens 
had, here and there, in the more public places, such as the porticoes 
of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows 
of torches ; but these rarely continued long ; the shoAvers and the 
wind extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their 
fitful light was converted had something in it doubly impressive on 
the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair. 

Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, parties 
of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, 
others flying from the sea back to the land; for the ocean had 
retreated rapidly from the shore — an utter darkness lay over it, and, 
upon its groaning and tossing waves the storm of cinders and rocks 
feU without the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to 
the land. Wild — haggard — ghastly with supernatural fears, these 
groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to 
consult, to advise; for the showers fell now frequently, though not 
continuously, extinguishing the lights which showed to each band 
the death-like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge 
beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization 
were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw 



12() TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

tliG thief hasteniuijf hy tlio most, solemn antluiritios of tho law, ladon 
with, and fearfully chuckling over, tho pvo'liico of his snddon gains. 
If, in tho darkness, wifo was separated from hushand, or parent from 
child, vain was the hope of rennion. Each hxirried hlindly and 
confusedly on. Nothing in all tho various and complicated nuichin- 
ery of social liCo was loft save the prinuil law of self-preservatit)n ! 

Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his w:iy, 
accompanied hy lone and the hlind girl. Suddenly a rush of hun- 
dreds, in tlieir path to the sea, swept hy them. Nydia was torn 
from the side of (ilaucus, who, with .h>ne, was Inn-nc rapidly onward; 
and when tho ci'owd (whoso forms they saw not, so thick was the 
gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated ivom their side. Glau- 
cus shouted her name. No answer came. They retraced tlieir 
steps — in vain : they conld not discover her — it was evident she had 
been swept along in some opposite direction hy tho human current. 
Their friend, their preserver, was lostl And hitherto Nydia had 
been their guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her 
alone. Accustomed, through a perpetuiil night, to thread tlie wind- 
ings of iho city, she had led them unerringly toward the sea-shore, 
by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way 
could they wend'? All was rayless to them — a maze without a clue. 
Wearied, despondent, bi^wilderod, they, however, passed along, tho 
ashes falling upcni their heads, the fragiuentary stones dashing up 
ill sparldes before ihvli feet. 

" Alas! alas!" nmrmured lone, "I can go no farther; my steps 
sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest! — beloved, liy I and 
leave me to my fate!" 

"Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with tliee is sweeter 
than life without thee! Yet, whither — oh! whitjier, can we direct 
ourselves through the gloom? Already, it seems tluit wo have made 
but a circle, and are in the very spot which we quitted an hour ago." 

" Blessed lightning ! See, lone — see ! the portico of tho Temple 
of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it will protect us 
from the showers." 

He caught bis beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and labor 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 127 

pained the temple, llo Ijore her to the remoter iind more whcltcred 
l)!i-rt of the portico, and letincd over lier, th;i,t lie might shield her, 
with his own form, from the liyhtiiiufi; iiud tlie showers! The 
])(!:uity and the miseliishness of love could hallow even that dismal 
time! 

"Will) is there?" said the tremhling ajid lioUow voice of one 
v,hi) liad preceded them in their place of refuge. "Yet, Avhat mat- 
U'VH? tlu! crush of the ruined world forhids to us friends or foes." 

lone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint shriek, 
cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus; and he, looking in the 
dirocti(m of the voice, l)ehcld the cause of her alarm. Through the 
d.irkness glared forth two burning eyes — the lightning flashed and 
lingered athwart the temple — and Glaucus, with a shudder, per- 
ceived the pillars; — and, close beside it, unwitting of the vicinity, 
lay the giant form of him who had accosted (hem — the wounded 
gladiator, Niger. 

That lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast 
and man ; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the Hon crept 
near and nearer to the gladiator, as for companionship; and the 
gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution of nature 
had dissolved her lighter terrors as well as her wonted ties. 

While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men and 
women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They were of the 
«ongregation of the Nazarenes ; and a sublime and unearthly emo- 
iioii liad not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it had robbed awe of 
fear. They had long believed, according to the error of the early 
Christians that the Last Day was at hand; they imagined now that 
the Day had come. 

"Woe! wool" ruied, in a shrill and piercing voice, the elder at 
their head. "Jjt^hold! the Lord descended! to judgment! He 
niakcth lire come down from heaven in tlie sight of men! Woe! 
Woe I ye strong and mighty ! Woe to ye of the fasces and the pur2)le ! 
Woe to the idolator and the worshiper of tlie beast! Woo to ye 
who pour forth the blood of saints, and gloat over the death pangs 
of the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of the seal — woe! wool" 



128 TREASUllES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

And ^vi(ll a li>iul uiul ilf('|> rhoius, tlio troop chimtetl fortli along 
iJio Avild horrors of ilu' air, - "\V(>c io i\w harlot, of tho seal — ^YOol 
\vool" 

'Tho Nassarones pacoil .slowly on, their torchos .still tlic iuMingiu 
tho t-itonu, iluMr voicivs still raiscil in nu-iun-o niul soUmum vaniiujj;, 
till, lost ainiil tho windiiiijjs in tho stivot., tho ilarknoss o( tho atuios- 
l>ii( ro Miul tho siloiu'o o{ iloath a{j;ain toll t^vor tho siono. 



The Candid Man. 

Oiit^ hri;!;ht., laujj;hinf? ilay, I tJirow down my book mi hour sooner 
than usual, and saJliod out \vitJi a lisjchtuoss of foot and exhilaration 
of spirit, to Nvhioh 1 luul loni^ hoou a strau;,'or. 1 had just sjnuug 
o\cr a. stilo that lod into i>no (>f tluiso groon, shady lanos Avhich 
niaJa>s us foil that tho ohl poots who lovod and iivod for nature 
Avoro right in caJliug our islaml "tho uu>rry J'aigland," when I was 
startliHl hy a short quiok hark im ouo side of tho hodgo. I turuod 
sharply round; and, seated upon tho sward was a man, apparently 
of tliO peddler profession ; a great deid-box was lying open before 
hiiu; a few artieh>s of linen and female dress were scattered round, 
and the man himself appeared earnestly occupied in examining tho 
deeper roc<>ssi's oi his itineiimt warehouse. A snuill black terrier 
iKnv toward nu> with no friendly gnnvl. 

"JX>wn," sail! 1, "all strangers are notfot>s, though tho English 
generally think so." 

The man hastily lookeil up; perhaps ho was struck witli tho 
(piaintnesa of my renu>nstj-a>ice to his canine companion; for, 
touching his hat civilly, ho said, "Tho dog, sir, is very quiet; he 
only means to give ntt^ tJio alarm by giving it to j/ou: for dogs seem 
to have no despicable insight into human natuiv, and know well 
that the bi>st of us m.-iy bo taken by surprise." 

"You are a moralist," said I, not a little astouishcil in my turn 
by such »ui addirss from such a person. "I coidd not have expocteil 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE TEOSE WOELD. 129 

to stumble upon a philosopher so easily. Have you any wares in 
your l)ox likely to ,suifc me? If so, I should Hko to purchase of so 
moraliising a vendor 1" 

"No, sir," said the seeming peddler, smiling, and yet at the 
same time hurrying his goods into his Ijox, and carefully turning 
the key. "No, sir, I am only a bearer of other men's goods; my 
morals are all that I can call my own, and those I will sell you at 
your own price." 

"You are candid, my friend," said I, "and your frankness, 
alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and country of 
hypocrisy. " 

"Ah, sir!" said my new acquaintance, "I see already that you 
arc one of those persons who look to the dark side of things; for 
my i)art, I think the present age the best that ever existed, and our 
couiitry the most virtuous in Europe." 

"I congratulate you, Mr. Optimist, on your opinions," quoth I; 
"but your observation leads mo to suppose that you are botli an 
historian and a traveler; am I right?" 

"Why," answered the box-bearer, "I have dabbled a little in 
books, and wandered not a little among men. I am just returned 
frona Gennany, and am now going to my friends in London. I 
am charged with this box of goods. God send mo the luck to 
deliver it safe!" 

"Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this triilo I Avish 
you a good morning." 

"Thank you a thousand times, sir, for both," replied the man, 
"but do add to your favors by informing me of the right road to the 
town of ." 

"I am going in that direction myself; if you choose to accom- 
pany me part of the way, I can insure your not missing the rest. " 

"Your honor is too good!" returned ho of the box, rising, and 
slinging his fardel across him; "it is but seldom th;i,t a gentleman 
of your rank will condescend to walk three paces with 07ic. of mine. 
You smile, sir; perhaps you think I should not class myself among 
gentlemen ; and yet I have as good a right to the name as most of 



130 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

the set. I belong to no trade, I follow no cabling; I rove where 1 
list, and rest where I please; in short, I know no occupation but 
my indolence, and no law bnt my will. Now, sir, may I not call 
myself a gentleman?" 

"Of a surety," quoth I. "You seem to me to hold a middle 
rank between a half -pay captain and the king of the gypsies." 

"You have it, sir," rejoined my companion with a slight laugh. 
He was now by my side, and as we walked on, I had leisure more 
minutely to examine him. He was a middle-sized and rather 
athletic man ; apparently about the age of thirty-eight. He was 
attired in a dark blue frock-coat, which was neither shabby nor 
new, but ill-made, and much too large and long for its present 
possessor; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had 
fonnerly, like the Persian ambassador's tunic, "blushed with 
cj-imson and blazed with gold," but which might now have been 
advantageously exchanged in Monmouth Street for the lawful sum 
of two shillings and ninepencc ; under this was an inner vest of 
the cashmere shawl pattern, which seemed much too new for the 
rest of the dress. Though his shirt was of a very unwashed hue, I 
remarked, ^\^th some suspicion, that it was of a very respectable 
fineness; and a i:>in, which might be paste, or could be diamond, 
peeped below a tattered and dingy black kid stock, like a gipsy's 
eye beneath her hair. 

His trousers were of alight gray, and the justice of Providence, 
or of the tailor, avenged itself upon them for the prodigal length 
bestowed upon their ill-assorted companion, the coat; for they 
were much too tight for the muscular limbs they concealed, and, 
rising far above the ankle, exhibited the whole of a thick Welling- 
ton boot, which was the very picture of Itiily upon tlie map. 

The face of tlie man was commonplace and ordinary — one sees 
a hundred such every day in Fleet Street or on 'Change, — the 
features were small, irregular, and somewhat flat; yet when you 
looked twice upon the coimtenance, there was something marked 
and singular in the expression, which fully atoned for the common- 
ness of the features. The right eye turned away from the left in 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 131 

that watchful sqtiint wliicli seemed constructed on the same con 
siderate plan as those Irish gmis, made for shooting round a corner; 
his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly resembled bramble 
bushes, in which his fox-like eyes had taken refuge. Bound these 
vulpine retreats was a labyrinthean maze of those wrinkles, vul- 
garly called crow's feet; deep, intricate, and intersected, they seemed 
for aU the world like the web of a chancery suit. Singular enough, 
the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth and miindented ; 
even the lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, usiiaUy 
so deeply traced in men of his age, were scarcely more apparent 
than in a boy of eighteen. 

His smile was frank, his voice clear and hearty, his address 
open, and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming 
somewhat of equality, yet conceding a great deal of respect; but, 
notwithstanding all these certain favorable points, there was a sly 
and cimning expression in his perverse and vigilant eye and aU the 
wrinkled demesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust even 
while I liked my companion : perhaps, indeed, lie was too frank, 
too famihar, too (le(/a(je, to be quite natural. Your honest men 
soon buy reserve by experience. Rogues are communicative and 
open, because confidence and openness costs them nothing. To 
finish the description of my new acquaintance, I should observe 
that there was something in his coimtenance which struck me as 
not whoUy unfamiliar; it was one of those which we have not, in 
all human probability, seen before, and yet which (perhaps from 
their very commonness) we imagine we have encountered a hundred 
times. 

We "walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of the day; 
in fact, the air was so pure, tiie grass so green, the laughing noon- 
day so full of the hum, the motion and the life of creation, that 
the feehng produced was rather that of freshness and invigoration 
than of languor and heat. 

"We have a beautiful country, sir," said my hero of the box. 
"It is like walking through a garden, after the more sterile and 
sullen features of the continent. A pure mind, sir, loves the coun- 



132 TEEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

try; for my part, I am always disposed to burst out in thanks- 
giving to Providence when I behold its works, and, like the valleys 
in the Psalm, I am ready to laugh and sing." 

"An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher! perhaps, 
(and I believe it likely) I have the honor of addressing a poet, also?" 

"Why, sir," replied the man, "I have made verses in my life; 
in short, there is little I have not done, fpr I was always a lover of 
variety; but, perhaps, your honor will let me return the suspicion. 
Are you not a favorite of the muse?" 

"I cannot say that I am," said I. "I value myself only on my 
common sense — the very antipodes to genius, you know, according 
to the orthodox belief." 

"Common sense!" repeated my companion, with a singular 
and meaning smile, and a twinkle with his left eye. "Common 
sense! Ah, that is not my forte, sir. You, I dare say, are one of 
those gentlemen whom it is very difficult to take in, either passively 
or actively, by appearance, or in act? For my part, I have been a 
dupe all my life — a child might cheat me ! I am the most unsus- 
picious i:)erson in the world." 

"Too candid by half," thought I. "This man is certainly a 
rascal; but what is that to me? I shall never see him again," and 
true to my love of never losing an opportunity of ascertaining indi- 
vidual character, I observed that I thought such an acquaintance 
very valuable, especially if he were in trade; it was a j)ity, there- 
fore, for my sake, that my companion had informed me that he fol- 
lowed no caUing. 

"Why, sir," said he, "I aw occasionally in employment; my 
nominal profession is that of a broker. I buy shawls and hand- 
kerchiefs of poor countesses, and retail them to rich plebeians. I 
lit up new-married couples with linen at a more moderate rate than 
the shops, and procure the bridegroom his present of jewels at 
forty per cent less than the jewelers; nay, I am as friendly to an 
intrigue as a marriage; and, when I cannot sell my jewels, I will 
my good offices. A gentleman so handsome as your honor may 
have an affair upon your hands; if so, you may rely upon my 



TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 133 

secrecy and zeal. In short, I am an innocent, good-natured fellow, 
who does harm to no one or nothing, and good to every one for 
something." 

"I admire your code," quoth I, "and, whenever I want a mecUator 
between Venus and myself, will employ you. Have you always fol- 
lowed your present idle profession, or were you brought up to any 
other?" 

"I was intended for a silversmith," answered my friend, "but 
Providence willed it otherwise. They taught me from childhood to 
repeat the Lord's prayer. Heaven heard me, and delivered me from 
temptation, — there is, indeed, something terribly seducing in the 
face of a silver spoon." 

"Weil," said I, "you are the honestest knave that ever I met, 
and one would trust you with one's purse, for the ingenuousness 
with which you own you would steal it. Pray, think you, is 
it probable that I have ever had the happiness of meeting you 
before? I cannot help fancying so — as yet I have never been in 
the watch-house or the Old Bailey, my reason tells me that I must 
be mistaken." 

"Not at all, sir," returned my worthy; "I remember you well, 
for I never saw a face like yours that I did not remember. I had 
the honor of sipping some British liquors in the same room with 
yourself one evening; you were then in company with my friend, 
Mr. Gordon." 

"Ha!" said I, "I thank you for the hint. I now remember 
well, by the same token, that he told me you were the most 
ingenious gentleman in England, and that you had a happy pro- 
l^ensity of mistaking other people's possessions for your own. I 
congratulate myself upon so desirable an acquaintance." 

My friend smiled with his usual blandness, and made me a low 
bow of acknowledgment before he resumed: 

"No doubt, sir, Mr. Gordon informed you right. I flatter 
myself few understand better than myself the art of appropriation, 
though I say it who should not say it. I deserve the reputation I 
have acquired, sir; I have always had ill-fortune to struggle against, 



134 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

and always have remedied it by two virtues^perseverance and 
ingenuity. To give you an idea of my ill-fortune, know that I have 
been taken up twenty-three times on suspicion; of my persever- 
ance, know that I have been taken up justly ; and, of my ingenuity, 
know that I have been twenty-three times let oflf, because there was 
not a tittle of legal evidence against me !" 

"I venerate your talents, Mr. Jonson," replied I, "if by the 
name of Jonson it pleaseth you to be called, although, like the 
heathen deities, I presume that you have many titles, whereof some 
are more grateful to your ears than others." 

"Nay," answered the man of two virtues, "I am never ashamed 
of my name ; indeed, I have never done anything to disgrace me. 
I have never indulged in low company nor profligate debauchery ; 
whatever I have executed by way of profession has been done in a 
superior and artist-hke manner, not in the rude, bunghng fashion 
of other adventurers. Moreover, I have always had a taste for 
pohte hterature, and went once as an apprentice to a pubhshing 
bookseller, for the sole purpose of reading the new works before 
they came out. In fine, I have never neglected any opportunity of 
improving my mind ; and the worst that can be said against me is : 
that I have remembered my catechism, and taken aU possible pains 
to learn and labor truly to get my li^'ing, and to do my duty in that 
state of life to which it has pleased Providence to caU me." 

"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honor among 
thieves ; I am happy to learn from you that there is also religion ; 
your baptismal sponsors must be proud of so dihgent a godson." 

"They ought to be, sir," rej)lied Mr. Jonson, "for I gave them 
the first specimens of my address ; the story is long, but, if you 
ever give me an opportunity, I will relate it, " 

"Thank you," said I; "meanwhile I must wish you good- 
morning ; your way now lies to the right. I return you my best 
thanks for your condescension, in accompanying so undistinguished 
an individual as myself." 

"Oh, never mention it, your honor," rejoined Mr. Jonson. 
"I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of your 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 135 

' common sense.* Farewell, sir; may we meet again!" So saying, 
Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we parted. 

I went home, musing on my adventure, and dehghted with my 
adventurer. When I was about three paces from the door of my 
liome, I was accosted in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar, 
apparently in the last extreme of misery and disease. Notwith- 
standing my political economy, I was moved into alms-giving by a 
spectacle so wretched. I put my hand into my pocket, my purse 
was gone; and, on searching the other, lo! my handkerchief, my 
pocket-book, and a gold locket, which had belonged to Madame 
D'Anville, had vanished, too. 

One does not keep company with men of two virtues and 
receive compliments upon one's common sense, for nothing! 

The beggar still continued to importune me. 

"Give him some food and half a crown," said I to my landlady. 

Two hours afterward she came up to me: "Oh, sir! my silver 
teapot — that villain, the be(/fiar !" 

A light flashed upon me. "Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr. Job 
Jonson!" cried I, in an indescribable rage; "out of my sight, 
woman! out of my sight!" I stopped short; my speech failed me. 
Never tell me that shame is the companion of guilt! The sinful 
knave is never so ashamed of himself as is the innocent fool who 
suffers by him. 




136 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PECSE WOELD. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



OLIVEK GOLDSMITH was born in 1728 ; died 1774. He 
was an Irishman, and his parents were quite poor. At the 
age of seventeen, Oliver went to Trinity College, Dublin, as 
a sizar. In this school he had to pay nothing for food and 
tuition, but ht> had to perform some menial service. He ob- 
tained his bachelor's degree, and left the university. Gold- 
smith was not a brilliant and attentive student. He became 
the common butt of boys and master, and was flogged as a 
dunce in school-room. He tried several professions, but all 
without success. Eighteen months were spent in studying 
medicine at Edinburgh, then some time pretending to be 
studying physic at Leyden. At the age of twenty-seven he 
left school, with a mere smattering of medical knowledge, 
and with no property but his clothes and flute. 

Next, Goldsmith commenced his wanderings. He ram- 
bled on foot through Flanders, France, Switzerland, Italy, 
" playing tunes which everywhere set the peasantry dancing." 
His flute frequently gained him meals and bed. Upon his 
return to England, he obtained a medical appointment in 
the service of the East India Company, but the appointment 
was speedily revoked. At last he took a garret, and at 
thirty commenced to toil like a galley slave. 

[" Goldsmith's fame as a poet is secured by the Traveler, 
and the Deserted Village.''*] He wrote the Vicar of Wakefield, 
a novel of much merit. Oood-natured Man, She Stoops to 
Conquer, and many other good plays were written by him 







OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 137 

for the stage. He also wrote for the use of schools, a His- 
tory of Rome, History of England, of Greece, and a Natural 
History. His knowledge, however, was not accurate enough 
to make his histories very valuable. Dr. Johnson says of 
his Natural History : " If he can tell a horse from a cow, 
that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." But his 
abiUty to select and condense, enabled him to make histo- 
ries that are models of arrangement and condensation, and 
in this respect they are valuable. 

Although a sloven in his dress and life, yet he has a 
grace and beauty of style that is chaste and musical and fas- 
cinating. Goldsmith is one of the most beloved and brilliant 
of English writers, — full of tenderness and affection. 




138 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



Love of Life and Age. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of 
hving. Those dangers, which, in the vigor of youth, we had 
learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our cau- 
tion increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the pre- 
vailing passion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is taken 
up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or provide for a continued 
existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the 
wise are hable ! If I should judge of that part, of life which lies 
before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. 
Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no real 
felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are stronger 
than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation 
in vain persuade; hope, more powerfid than either, dresses out the 
distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspec- 
tive, still beckons me to pursue; and, like a losing gamester, every 
new disappointment increases my ardor to continue the game. 

Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon 
us with our years ? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater 
efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it becomes scarce 
Avorth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation 
of mankind, increases our wish to hve, while she lessens our enjoy- 
ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imag- 
ination in the s^joil? Life would be insupportable to an old man 
who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in 
the vigor of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying 
nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure woidd at 
once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of 
misery, but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time 
when it could only be prejudicial, and life acquires an imaginary 
value in proportion as its real value is no more. 



TBEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOKLD. 139 

Chinwang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- 
manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the 
preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who came 
to thank their deliverer on this occasion there appeared a majestic 
old man, who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as fol- 
lows: "Great father of China, behold a wretch now eighty-live 
years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. 
I was imprisoned though a stranger to crime, or without being con- 
fronted by my accusers. I have now lived in sohtude and darkness 
for more than fifty years, and am grown familiar with distress. 
As yet, dazzled with the splendor of that sun to which you have 
restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out some 
friend who woidd assist, or reheve, or remember me; but my 
friends, my family and relations are aU dead, and I am forgotten. 
Permit me, then, Cliinwang, to wear out the wretched remains 
of life in my former prison ; the walls of my dungeon are to me 
more pleasing than the most splendid palace ; I have not long to 
live, and shall be mihappy except I spend the rest of my days 
where my youth was passed — in that prison from whence you were 
pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we aU 
have for hfe. We are habituated to the prison, we look round with 
discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our 
captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we 
have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have 
begotten, all serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our part- 
ing. Life sues the young hke a new acqaintance ; the companion, 
as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and- amusing; its com- 
pany pleases, yet for all this it is but httle regarded. To us, who 
are dechned in years, life appears hke an old friend; its jests have 
been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to 
make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise, yet 
still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it; hus- 
band the wasting treasure with increasing frugahty, and feel aU the 
poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 



110 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Sir Philip Mordiuint was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an 
Englislnnan. He hail n eonipleto fortune of his own, and the love 
of tlie king his master, whicli was equivalent to riches. Life opened 
all her treasures before him, and promised a liuig succession of 
future happiness, lie came, tasted of tlie eutertaiiiinent, but was 
disgusted even at the beginning, lie professed an aversion to liv- 
ing, was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every 
(Mijoynu'nt, ami found them ail grow Aveaker at every repetition. 
" If life be in youth so displeasing," cried he to himself, "what will 
it appear when ago comes on ? if it bo at present inditl'erent, sure it will 
then be execrable." This thought embittered every rellection; till 
at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended tlio debate 
with a pistol I Had this self-deluded man been apprised that exist- 
ence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would havi' 
tlien faciul (dd age without shrinking; he would have bohlly dared 
to live, and served that society by his futiU'O assiduity wliich he 
basely injured by his desortiou. 



Happiness in Solitude. 

I cjxii hardly tell you, sir, how concerned I have been to see 
that you consider nu^ the most miserable of men. The world, uo 
doubt, tliiuks as you do, juid tliat also distresses me. Oh ! why is 
jiot the existence I have enjoyed known to the whole universe! 
every one would wish to procure for himself a similar lot, peace 
would reign upon tiie eartli, uuiu woxUd no longer tliink of injuring 
his fellows, and the wicked would no longer be found, for none 
would have an interest in being wicked. But what, tlieu, did I enjoy 
when I was alone? Myself; the entire universe; all that is; all 
that can be; idl that is beautiful in tlio world of sense; jiU that is 
imaginable in the world of intellect. I gatliered around me all that 
coidd delight my heart; my desires were the limit of my pleasures. 
No, never have the most voluptuous known such enjoyments; and 



TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 141 

I have derived a hundred times more happiness from my chimeras 
l;han they from their reahties. 

When my sulTerings make me measure sadly the length of the 
night, and the agitation of fever prevents me from enjoying a 
snigle instant of sleep, I often divert my mind frpm my present 
state, in thinking of the various events of my hfe; and repentance, 
sweet recollections, regrets, emotions, help to make me for some 
moments forget my sufferings. "What period do you think, sir, I 
r(;cn,ll most frequently ajid most willingly in my dreams? Not the 
pleasures of my youth, they were too rare, too much mingled with 
hitterness, and are now too distant. I recall the period of my seclu- 
sion, of my solitary walks, of the fleeting hut delicious days that I 
have passed entirely l^y myself, with my good and simple house- 
keeper, with my beloved dog, my old cat, with the birds of the fields, 
the hinds of the forest, with all nature and her inconceivable 
Author. In getting up before the sun to contemplate its rising 
from my garden, when a beautiful day was ooiruuencing, my first 
wish was that no letters or visits might come to disturb the charm. 
After having devoted the morning to various duties, that I fulfilled 
with pleasure, because I coidd have put them off to another time, 
I hastened to dine, that I might escape from importunate people, 
and insure a longer afternoon. Before one o'clock, even on the 
hottest days, I started in the heat of the sun with my faithful 
Acluites, hastening my steps in the fear that some one would take 
possession of me before I could escape; but when once I could 
turn a certain corner, with what a beating heart, with what a 
flutter of joy, I began to breathe, as I felt that I was safe; 
and I said. Here now am I my own master for the rest of the 
day! I went on then at a more tranquil pace to seek some 
wild spot in the forest, some desert place, where nothing indicating 
the hand of man announced slavery and power — some refuge to 
which 1 could believe I was the first to penetrate, and where no 
wearying third could step in to interpose between Nature and me. 
It was there that she seemed to display before my eyes an ever new 
magnificence. The gold of the broom and the purjjle of the heath 



1 l'2 TREASURES FROM TITE PROSE WORLD. 

.struck my Bight ^viih ii splendor iliiit touohcd my ]K,irt. The 
m:ijcsty of the trees that covered me witli their shadow, the dehcacy 
of the shnil)s iliiit flourished around me, the astonishing variety of 
the herbs iuid flowers Ihat 1 crushed beneath my I'cet kc[)t my mind 
in a continu('(l alternation of /)bserving and of admiiing. This 
assemblage of so many interesting objects contending for my atten- 
tion, attracting me incessantly from one to the other, fostered my 
dreamy and idle humor, and often made me repeat to myself, No, 
"even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." 

The spot thus adorned could not long remain a desert to my 
imagination. I soon peopled it with beings after my own heart; 
and dismissing opinion, prejudices, and all factitious passions, I 
brought to these sanctuaries of nature men worthy of inhabiting 
them. I formed with these a charming society, of which I did not 
feel myself unworthy. I made a golden age according to my fancy, 
and, filling up these bright days with all the scenes of my life that 
had left the tendercst recollections, and with all that my heart still 
longed for, I affected myself to tears over the true pleasures (-f 
humanity — i)leasurcs so delicious, so pure, and yet so far from 
men! Oh, if in these moments any ideas of Paris, of the age, and 
of my little author vanity disturbed my reveries, with what con- 
tempt I drove them instantly away, to give myself up entirely to 
the exquisite sentiments with which my soul was filled. Yet, in the 
midst of all this, I confess the nothingness of my chimeras Avould 
sometimes ai)pear, and sadden me in a moment. If all my dreams 
had turned to reality, they would not have sufficed — I should still 
have imagined, dreamed, desired. I discovered in myself an inex- 
plicable void that nothing tould have filled — a certain yearning of 
my heart toward another kind of happiness, of which I had no 
definite ideui, but of which I felt the want. Ah, sir, this even 
was an enjoyment, for I was filled with a lively sense of what it 
was, and with a delightful sadness of which I should not have 
wished to be deprived. 

From the surface of the earth I soon raised my thoughts to 
all the beings of Nature, to the universal system of things, to the 



TREASURES PROM TPIE PROSE WORLD. 1 I;) 

incomprehensible Being who enters into all. Then, as my mind 
was lost in this immensity, I did not think, I did not reason, I did 
not philosophize. I felt, with a kind of voluptuousness, as if 
bowed down by the weight of this universe ; 1 gave myself up with 
rapture to this confusion of grand ideas. I delighted in imagina- 
tion to lose myself in space; my heart, confined within the limits 
of the mortal, found not room; I was stifled in the universe; I 
would have sprung into the infinite. I think that, could I have 
unveiled all the mysteries of nature, my sensations would have 
been less delicious than was this bewildering ecstacy, to which my 
mind abandoned itself witliout control, and which, in the excite- 
ment of my transports, made me sometimes exclaim, " Oh, Great 
Being! oh. Great Being!" without being able to say or think more. 
Thus glided on in a continued rapture the most charming 
days that ever human creature passed ; and when the setting sun 
made me think of returning, astonished at the flight of time, I 
thought I had not taken sufficient advantage of my day; I fancied 
I might have enjoyed it more; and, to regain the lost time, I 
said, — I will come back to-morrow. I returned slowly liome, my 
head a little fatigued, but my heart content. I reposed agreeably 
on my return, abandoning myself to the impression of objects, but 
without thinking, without imagining, without doing anything 
beyond feeling the calm and the happiness of my situation. I 
found the cloth laid ui)on terrace; I supped with a good appetite, 
amidst my little household. No feeling of servitude or dependence 
disturbed the good will that united us all. My dog himself was )ny 
friend, not my slave. We had always the same wish; but he never 
obeyed me. My gayety during the whole evening testified to my 
having been alone the whole day. I was very different when I had 
seen company. Then I was rarely contented with others, and never 
with myself. In the evening I was cross and taciturn. This 
remark was made by my housekeeper; and since she has told me so I 
have always found it true, when I watched myself. Lastly, after 
having again taken in the evening a few turns in my garden, or 
sung an air to my spinnet, I found in my bed repose of body and 



144 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELt). 

soul a liundred times sweeter than sleep itself. These were the 
days that have made the true happiness of my life — a happiness 
without bitterness, without weariness, without regret, and to which 
I would willingly have limited my existence. Yes, sir, let such 
days as these fill up my eternity; I do not ask for others, nor imag- 
ine that I am much less happy in these exquisite contemplations 
than the heavenly spirits. But a suffering body deprives the mind 
of its liberty; henceforth I am not alone; I have a guest who impor- 
tunes me; I must free myself of it to be myself. The trial that 
I have made of these sweet enjoyments serves only to make me 
with less alarm await the time when I shall taste them without 
interruption. 



Joan of Arc. 



What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the 
poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that, like the 
Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly 
out of the qxiiet, out of the safety, out of the rehgious inspiration, 
rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, 
and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? The 
Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a vic- 
torious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of 
Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her 
nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; 
but so did they to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all Avho 
saAV them /Vo»/- a station of yood-wiU, both were found true and loyal 
to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that 
made the diiJerence between their subsequent fortunes. The boy 
rose — ^to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and 
public, that rang through the records of his people and became a by- 
word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the scepter 



TREASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 145 

was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, 
drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for 
France. She never sang together with them the songs that rose in 
her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. 
She mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs which celebrated 
in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her voice was then 
silent. No ! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted 
girl ! whom, from earhest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth 
and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, 
that never once — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou 
revel in the vision of coronets and honors from man. Coronets for 
thee ! Oh, no ! Honors, if they come when aU is over, are for those 
that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of 
thy king shall awaken, thou Avilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. 
Call her, king of France, but she will not hear thee ! Cite her by 
thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be 
found in contuniace. When the thunders of universal France, as 
even yet may ha^Dpen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shep- 
herd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd 
girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To suffer and to do — 
that was thy portion in this life ; to do — never for thyself, always 
for others ; to suffer — never in the persons of generous champions, 
always in thy own ; that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment 
was it hidden from thyself. "Life," thou saidst, "is short, and the 
sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that life, so tran- 
sitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort 
the sleep which is long." This poor creature, pure from every 
suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in 
senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarding 
herself, relax from her behef in the darkness that was travehng to 
meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death ; 
she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, 
the spectators without end on every road pouring into Eouen as to 
a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile 
faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there 



146 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial 
restraints ; these might not be apparent through the mists of the 
hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she 
heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great 
was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, 
nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she 
was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from 
tlie dust. Gorgeous were the hhes of France, and for centuries had 
the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until in another 
century the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but 
weU Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, 
that the liUes of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower 
nor bud, beU nor blossom would ever bloom for her. 

On the Wednesday after Trinity Simday in 1431, being then 
about nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her mar- 
tyrdom. She was conducted before midday, guarded by eight 
hundred spearmen, to a platform of prodigious height, constructed 
of wooden billets, supported by hoUow spaces in every direction, 
for the creation of air currents. "The pile struck terror," says M. 
Michelet, "by its height." 

There would be a certainty of calumny rising against her — 
some people woiUd impute to her a wilhngness to recant. No inno- 
cence could escape that. Now, had she really testified this wilhng- 
ness on the scaffold, it would have argued nothing at all but the 
weakness of a genial nature shrinking from the instant ajjproach of 
torment. And those will often pity that weakness most, who in 
their own persons would yield to it least. Meantime there never 
was a calumny uttered that drew less support from the recorded 
circumstances. It rests upon no positive testimony, and it has 
weight of contradicting testimony to stem. 

What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won, from the ene- 
mies that tiU now had beheved her a witch, tears of rapturous 
admiration? "Ten thousand men," says M, Michelet himself, "ten 
thousand men wept;" and of these ten thousand the majority were 



TKEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 147 

political enemies knitted together by cords of superstition. What 
else was it but her constancy, united with her angehc gentleness, 
that drove the fanatic Enghsh soldier — who had sworn to throw a 
fagot on her scaffold as his tribute of abhorrence, that did so, that 
fulfilled his vow — suddenly to turn away a penitent for hfe, saying 
everywhere that he had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven 
from the ashes where she h&.d stood? What else drove the execu- 
tioner to kneel at every shrine for pardon to his share in the tragedy ? 
And if aU this were insufficient, then I cite the closing act of her hfe 
as valid on her behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The 
executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He 
did so. The fiery smoke rose up in biUowy columns. A Domin- 
ican monk was then standing almost at her side. Wrapped up in 
his sublime office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his 
prayers. Even then tvhen the last enemy was racing up the fiery 
stairs to seize her, -sven at that moment did this noblest of girls 
think only for him, the one friend that would not forsake her, and 
not herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own 
preservation, but to leave her to God. That girl, whose latest breath 
ascended in this subhme expression of self-oblivion, did not utter 
the word recant either with her Hps or in her heart. No, she did 
not,tJ)0\igh on-s should rise from the dead to swear it. 




148 TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



How Curious It Is. 

When the life of Daniel Webster — that grand drama — was 
about drawing to a close, he is represented to have said, "Life — • 
Life — how curious it is !" The word curious was deemed a strange 
one, but it expressed the very thing. How curious life is, from the 
cradle to the grave ! The forming mind of childhood, busy with 
the present, and unable to guess the secret of its own existence, is 
curious. The hopes of youth are curious, reacliing forward into 
the future, and building castles in the perspective for those who 
entertain them, that will fade away in the sunlight of an older expe- 
rience. How curious is the first dawning of love; when the young 
heart surrenders itself to its dreams of bliss, illumined with moon- 
shine! How curious it is, when marriage crowns the wishes, to 
find the cares of life bvit begun, and the path all strewn with anxi- 
eties that romance had depicted as a road of flowers ! How curious 
it is, says the young mother, as she spreads upon her own the tiny 
hand of her child, and endeavors to read, in its dim lines, the for- 
tune there hidden! Curious, indeed, would such revealing be. 
How curious is the greed for gain that controls too much the life of 
man, leading him away after strange gods, forgetting all the object 
and good of life in a chase for a phantom light, that ends at last in 
three-fold Egyptian darkness ! How curious is the love of Hfe that 
cHngs to the old, and draws them back imploringly to earth, beg- 
ging for a longer look at time and its frivohties, with eternity and 
all its joys within their reach I How curious it is, when at length 
the great end draws nigh, — the glazing eye, the struggle, the groan, 
proclaiming dissolution, and the still clay — so still! — that lately 
stood by our side in the pride of health and happiness ! How curi- 
ous it is that the realities of the immortal world should be based 
upon the crumbling vanities of this, and that the path to infinite 
hfe should be through the dark shadow of the grave ! How curious 
it is, in its business and its pleasures, its joys and its sorrows, its 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 149 

hopes and its fears, its temptations and its triumphs ; and, as we 
contemplate hfe in all its manifestations, we needs must exclaim, 
"How curious it is!" 



The Puritans. 



The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar 
character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and 
eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general 
terms, an over-ruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every 
event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power aiothing was 
too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know 
him, to sei-ve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of 
existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage 
which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. 
Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an 
obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable bright- 
ness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated 
their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between 
the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when 
compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole 
race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. 
They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident 
of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the 
dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works 
of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of 
God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, 
they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life. If 
their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, 
legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces 
were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which 
should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and 
priests, they looked down with contempt; for they esteemed them- 



150 TREASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

selves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more 
sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, an (J 
priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest 
of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible im- 
portance belonged, — on whose slightest actions the spirits of lighi 
and darkness looked with anxious interest, — who had been destined, 
before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which 
should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. 
Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes 
had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, 
and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had pro- 
claimed his will by the pen of the evangelist and the hai-p of the 
j)rophet. He had been rescued by no common deliverer from the 
grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of 
no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for 
him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, 
that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the 
sufferings of her expiring God. 

Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men : the one 
all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, 
calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust be- 
fore his Maker; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his 
devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, 
and tears. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. 
He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. 
He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from 
dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted 
with the scepter of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried 
in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. 
But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for 
war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no percej^tible 
trace behind them. People Avho saw nothing of the godly but their 
uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and 
their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little 
reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or on the 



TEEASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. 151 

field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs 
a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which some 
writers have thought inconsistent with their rehgious zeal, but 
which were, in fact, the necessary effect of it. The intensity of 
their feeling on one subject made them tranquil on the other. One 
overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, 
ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its 
charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and 
their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had 
made them stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion 
and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and 
of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise 
ends, but never to choose unwise means. 



Changes of Matter. 

The universe is everywhere in motion. The atmosphere is 
agitated by winds; the world of waters is in perpetual circulation; 
plants and animals spring from the earth and air and return to 
them again ; all substances around us are undergoing slow trans- 
formation ; the stony record of the strata are but histories of past 
revolutions; our ponderous earth shoots swiftly along its orbit, 
while the mighty sun, with aU its attendant planets, is sweeping on 
forever through shoreless space. Nothmg around or within us is 
absolutely at rest. 



162 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



RALPH ^ATALDO EMERSON. 



RW. EMERSON was born in Boston, May 25, 1813. 
He was graduattHl at Harvard College in 1821, at the 
ago of 17. He taught school several years, then entered the 
mhiistry. From 182D to 1832 he preached in Boston, but on 
account of a change in his opinions he left the church and 
ministry and sailed for Europe. After a year's absence he 
returned home, took np his residence at Concord and entered 
the lecture Hold. Although mooting opposition, yet he ad- 
vanced steadily to tlio highest point of oxeollonce in his chosen 
■work. He discussed a subject in his lectures until he had 
fully matured the plan and matter for a bt)ok, when he 
presented the subject to the public in book form. 

The following are Emerson's published volumes : Nature, 
issued in 1830; tAvo series of Essays, 1841-4; Poems, 184G ; 
Mm'ellauies,lS-W; Representative Meu, 1S50 ; Enfilish Traits, 
185(); The Conduct of Life, IbGO; Maij Day and Other Pieces, 
18()7; Society and Solitude, 1870. He edited Parnassus in 
1875. His peculiar philosophy is set forth in Nature and 
The Atnerican Scholar, an oration iniblished in 1837. 

Emerson is not a philosopher solely ; he stands rather 
on the height where poetry and philosophy meet. He never 
argues and never pursues with strictness a train of thought. 
He is a disciple of no one master — neither of Plato, Kant, or 
Comte. Ho has established no school, intellectual or moral. 
But with wonderfully sharp perception he has looked into the 
vast drama of the universe, the mystery of existence, and 




RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 



TEEASURES FROxM THE TROSE WORLD. 153 

the powers of the soul. With equal acuteness he has observed 
the manifestations of nature in plants and animals. And in 
a long lifetime he lias mastered and assimilated the wisdom of 
centuries. His vivid imagination supplies him with figures 
that are as brilliant and enduring as diamonds. " But all 
he sees is with a poet's eye. The course of empires, the 
development of the arts, the learning of scholars, the beauty 
of landscapes, furnish hints to his all-absorbing mind ; but 
the separate ideas never coalesce into a system. His essays 
are full of golden veins and imbedded gems ; a whole diction- 
ary of quotations could be made from them. His poems have 
the same qualities, and sparkle with aphoristic lines : but his 
sense of melody or his command of meter is limited, and his 
verses sometimes have a simple and rustic monotony of ca- 
dence, like the oft-repeated plaint of a wild bird. 




154 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



Beauty. 

The poets are quite right in decking their mistresses with the 
spoils of tlie landscape, flower gardens, gems, rainbows, flushes of 
morning and stars of night, since all beauty points at identity, and 
whatsoever thing does not express to me the sea and sky, day and 
night, is somewhat forbidden and wrong. Into every beautiful ob- 
ject there enters somewhat immeasurable and divine, and just as 
much bounded by outlines, like mountains on the horizon, as into 
tones of music or depths of space. Polarized light showed the se- 
cret architecture of bodies ; and when the second-sight of tlae mind 
is opened, now one color, or form, or gesture, and now another, 
has a pungency, as if a more interior ray had been emitted, dis- 
closing its deep holdings in the frame of things. 

The laws of this translation we do not know, or why one 
feature or gesture enchants, why one word or syllable intoxicates, 
but the fact is familiar that the fine touch of the eye, or a grace of 
manners, or a phrase of poetry, plants wings at our shoulders ; as 
if the Divinity, in his apjiroaches, lifts away mountains of obstruc- 
tion, and designs to draw a truer line, which tlie mind knows and 
owns. This is that haughty force of beauty, cis superha fon/iic, 
which the poets praise — under calm and precise outline, the im- 
measurable and divine — beauty hiding all wisdom and power in its 
calm sky. 

All high beauty has a moral element in it, and I find the an- 
tique sculpture as ethical as Marcus Antoninus, and the beauty 
ever in proportion to the depth of thought. Gross and impure 
natures, however decorated, seem impure shambles ; but character 
gives splendor to youth, and awe to Avrinkled skin and gray hairs. 
An adorer of truth we cannot choose but obey, and the woman who 
has shared with us the moral sentiments — her locks must appear 
to us subhme. Thus, there is a climbing scale of culture, from 
the first agreeable sensation which a sparkling gem or a scarlet 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 155 

stain affords the eye, up througli fair outlines and details of the 
landscape, features of the human face and form, signs and tokens 
of thought and character in manners, up to the ineffable mysteries 
of the human intellect. Wherever we begin, thither our steps tend; 
an ascent from the joy of a horse in his trappings up to the per- 
ception of Newton, that the globe on which we ride is only a larger 
apple falling from a larger tree; up to the perception of Plato, that 
globe and universe are rude and early expression of an all-dissolv- 
ing unity — the first stair on the scale to the temple of the mind. 



Old Age. 



When life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it can well 
spare — muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works 
that belong to these. But the central wisdom, which was old in 
infancy, is young in fourscore years, and, dropping off obstructions, 
leaves in happy subjects the mind purified and wise. I have heard 
that whoever loves is in no condition old. I have heard that when- 
ever the name of man is spoken the doctrine of immortality is 
announced; it cleaves to his constitution. The mode of it baffles 
our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the other side. But the 
inference from the working of intellect, living knowledge, living 
skiU — at the end of life just ready to be born — affirms the inspira- 
tions of affection and of the moral sentiment. 




1;)(; 'IVKIlAKUUl'uS KliOM I'llK I'liOSK WOULD. 



Character of Washington. 

I (hiuk I know (lOiicnil WiialuiiL,'U)M intiiuiitoly hikI thoronprlily; 
1111(1 wiMo .1 culled oil to (li'lim'!it.o liia cluiniior, it would bo in ioniis 
liko ili('S(«: 

His niiiid \vii.« groiU. iMid poworfiil, Avil.lioul. lu'iut,' of tlio vcn-y 
lin-il. onliM-; his poiu^triiiiou st.rouiif, though not. so lU'uio iis that of 
II. Ni'wton, i>iU'oii, or Jux'ivo; and ns far aa ho saw, no judujiiiont 
was ovor souiulor. It wns slow in o|H>ra(ion, boing littlo aided by 
iuvoutioii or iiuaj^^inittion, but sur(^ in conclusion. Hence the com- 
mon romark of Win olVicors, of tho jidvantago ho dorivod from 
I'ouiu'ils of war, whort>, h(>arinj;[ all su!!:;!;cstions, ho soloctcd what- 
ever was best; and certainly no i;(Mier,il (>vcr planiuMl his bii.tlc^s 
moro judiciously. Hut if derangivlduriiiij: tlu> course of tho action, if 
any menib(>r of liis plan was dislocated by sudden circumstances, 
he was slow in ii. re-adjustment. The conseciucnce was, that ho 
often faihnl in the liold, and rarely aufainst an eiioiuy in station, as 
at Hoston and York, lie was incapabK> of fear, meotinjx personal 
dangers with tho calmest uncoiuuMii. rerhaps tho strongest, 
feature in his duiractor was pradence^ never acting until every cir- 
cuiust.anc<\ every consideration was maturely weighed; refraining, 
if ho saw doubt; but, when once decided, going througlMvith his pur- 
pose, whatever obstacles opposed. His integrity was the most pure, 
lus justice the most inflexible I have ever known; no inotiv(>s of 
interest or consanguinity, of friendship or hatred, being able to 
bias his decision. Wo was, indeed, in eviMy sense of tho words, 
a wise, a good and great man. His temper was naturally irritable 
and high-toned; but relloction and rescdution had td)tained a firm 
and habitual ascendancy oxor it. If ever, liowevcM'. it brokt> its 
bounds, ho was most trenuMidous in his wrath. In his expenses he 
was luniorablo, but exact.; liberal in contributions to whatever 
promised utility; but frowning and unyielding on all visionary pro- 



'I'liiiAstiHi'is I'uoM 'I UK I'uosh; \V()iii,i). ir,7 

jocl.s iiiid 11,11 iinworlJiy enUn on liis chiU'il.y. ILiH lu>;ul, was iiol, 

wju-iii in i(,s iillVclions; Itiil, \w cxiu-Uy ciilciilatod every iiimrH \nUw, 

luid ;fav(' him ii solid (\sU'(Mn jji'opoi-iioncd i,o il,. ]\\h ])vvh())\, yon 

know, was line; his Hia.l.iiru oxarlJy wluti one) would wi.sli; hin 

d('|M)rlnicnl, easy, creel,, and noMc; I,1h> IicsI, liofscnnin of liiH iigo, 

a,n.l Mir nnisl, j^MMCi-fnl li;,nii(' Uia,(, conld bo hcoii on horK(>l)a,('l<. Al- 

llion;^li in iJn^ ciivK" of his friciidrt, wlioro lui inif!;]il, ho unn^Hoi'vod 

willi Hjih'l.y, ho |,o()k n, froo n]iiu-(( in (•.oiiv(>rsa,l,ion, his colliKinia,! 

ialonhs WMc not, al)ov(« niodiocrily, |>oHsonnin!j; noithor ooi)ionHnoHH 

of ideas nor (liieney of words. in puhlic, ^vllon ciiJlod on for a 

sudden opinion, Jio wa,s nnrea,(ly, short, and onihiUTiWHod. Yot, ho 

wrote r(>M,(lily, ra.tluu- dilTnsely, in a,n easy and (U)rro(^l, style. This 

he had ac((iiii-e(l hy eoiivei'sa,l,ioii with tlu^ world, for his ediieal,ion 

was niorely rea-diii-j;, writinfs and ooninion aritlunotio, l,o which ho 

added snrv(>yinn:, at n, la,t(>r day. His tiino was eni|)loy(>d in action 

chiefly, readin;'; little, and that only in aj^riciiltiiral and Isiifrlish 

liistory. His correspondonco hecanio ncu'c^ssarily oxtensivo, and, 

wiUi jonrnaliziii'j:, liis aji^ricnltiira.i ])roeoodinf';s occupied niosl, of 

Ins leisure lioiiis within doors. On the wliole, liis cha,ia,(l,er wii,H 

in lis mass, perfect; in nolJiin;'; ha,d, in few points indilTonuit; a,nd 

it may truly ho said, that never did nature a,nd fortmio coml)ino 

more ])(n'fectly to inako a, man jrreal, and l,o place him in the saiiu! 

conHtollation with whatever worthies lia,v(« merited from man an 

evorhistinj^ remeiiihraiice. h'or his was tho siiif^MiIar dc^stiny and 

merit of huidiiifj ilio armies of liis conntry Mnc.c,(<ssfiilly t,lirou!!;h 

an arduous wa,r, for tlio osl,a,l)lis]iiii(«nt of its indepeiHh'iice; of con- 

ductiii;^' il,s councils tln'oiij^h tlu' hirlh of a ^'overnment, new in its 

forms and ])rinciples, until it had settled down into a <(uiet and 

onh-rly train; M,nd of scrupulously ohc^vinf^ the hiws flirou^di tho 

\v]iol(> of his career, civil and iiiilita,ry, of which the liistory of the 

world fiirnisheH no other example. 



158 TREASUllES PBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Poor Richard. 

I havo hoard that nothiiifT chives an author so groat ploaauro as 
to Imd his works rospoctfuUy qnotod by others. Judjj^o, thoii, liow 
much I must havo boon gratiiiod by an incident i am going to 
relate to you. I stopped my horso, lately, where a great number 
of people were collected at an auction of merchant's goods. The 
hour of sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness 
of the times; and one of the company called to a plain, clean old 
uuMi, with white locks, "Pray, father Abraham, what think you of 
the times'? Will not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country? 
How shall we ever bo able to p:iy them? What would you advise 
us to?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, "If you would 
have my advice, I will give it you in short, 'for a word to the wise 
is enough,' as poor llichard says." They joined in desiring him 
to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as fol- 
lows : 

"Friends," says ho, "the taxes are indeed very heavy; and, if 
those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, 
wo might more easily discharge them; but wo have numy others, 
and nmch more grievous to some of \as. We are taxed twice as 
much by our idleness, three times as umch by our pride, aiul four 
times as much by our folly; and from those taxes the commission- 
ers cannot case or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, 
lot us lioarkon to good advice, and something nuiy bo done for us; 
'God helps them that helps themselves,' as poor Richard says. 

"I. It would be thought a hard Government that should tax 
its people ono-tonth part of their time to bo employed in its ser- 
vice; but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bring- 
ing on diseases, absolutely shortens life. 'Sloth, like rust, con- 
sumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright,' 
as poor llichard aaya. 'But dost thou love life, then do not squan- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. J 50 

(ler time, for that is the KtuCf lifo is made of,' as poor Richard says. 
IJow iiiucli more than is necessary do we spend in sleep; forget- 
ting tliat 'the skiepiiig fox catches no poultry, and that there will 
ho sleeping enough in tin; grave,' as po(U" Richard says. 

"If time he of all things the most precious, wasting time must 
!)(', as poor Richard says, 'the greatest prodigality;' since, as he 
elsewhere tells us, 'Lost time is never found again; and what wo 
call time enough, always i)roves little enough.' Let us then up 
ajid be doing, and doing to the purpose, so hy diligence shall we 
do more with loss perplexity. 'Bloth makes all things difficult, 
hut industry all easy, and he that riseth liite, must trot all day 
and shall scarce overtake his husinoss a,t night; while liiziness 
travels so slowly, th;i.t poverty soon ovortii,kes liim. Di'ivt! iliy 
husiness, let not that drive thee; and 'early to bed, and early to 
rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' as poor Richard 
says. 

"80 whiit signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We 
may make these times better, if wo bestir ourselves. 'Industry 
need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will c^jie fasting. There 
are no gains without pains; then help hands for I have no lands, 
or if I have, they are smartly taxed. 'He that hath a trade hath 
an estate; and he that hath a calling, hath an otllce of profit and 
honor,' as poor Richard says; but then the trade must be worked 
at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office 
will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are industrious, wo shall 
never starve; for 'at the workingman's house hunger looks in but 
dares not enter.' Nor will the baililT or the constable enter, for 
'industry pays debts, while des2)air increaseth them.' Wlnii, 
though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation h ft 
a legacy, 'Diligence is the mother of good luck, and (iod givers all 
things to industry. Then plow deep, while sluggards sleei», 
and you shall have corn to sell and to ke(;p.' Work while it is 
called to-day, for you know iiot how mu( h you lujiy be hindred 
to-morrow. 'One to-day is worth two to-morrows,' as poor Rich- 
ard says; and further, 'Never leave that till to-morrow which you 



100 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

ban do to-day.' If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed 
that a good master shoukl catch you idle? Are you then your own 
master? Bo ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much 
to be done for yourself, your family, your country, and your king. 
'Handle your tools without mittens; remember that 'the cat in 
gloves catches no mice,' as poor Richard says. It is true there is 
much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to 
it steadily, and you will see great effects; for 'constant dropping 
wears away stones;' and 'by diligence and patience the mouse ate in 
two the cable;' and 'httle strokes fell great oaks.' 

"Methinks I hear some of you say, 'Must a man afford him- 
self no leisure?' I will tell thee, my friend, what poor Richard 
says: 'Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; 
and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.' 
Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the diligent 
man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for, 'A life of leisure and 
a life of laziness arc two things. Many, without labor, would live 
by their wits only, but they break for want of stock;' whereas in- 
dustry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. 'Fly pleasures and 
they will follow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift, and 
now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good-morrow.' 

"11. But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled 
and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and 
not trust too much to others, for, as poor Richard says — 

'I never saw an oft removed tree, 

Nor j'et an oft removed family, 

That throve so weU as those that settled be. 

And again, 'Three removes are as bad as a fire;' and again, 'Keep 
thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee;' and again, 'If you would 
have your business done, go; if not, send;' and again — 

'He that by the plow would thrive, 
Himself must either hold or drive.' 

And again, 'The eye of the master will do more work than both his 
hands;' and again, 'Want of care docs more damage than want of 
knowledge;' and again, 'Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them 



TEEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 161 

your purse open.' Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of 
many; for 'Lithe affairs of this world, men are saved, not by 
faith, but by the want of it;' but a man's own care is profitable, 
for 'If you would have a faithful servant, and one that youhl^e, serve 
yourself. A httle neglect may breed great mischief; for want of a 
nail the shoo was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for 
want of a horse the rider was lost,' being overtaken and slain by 
the enemy; aU for the want of a httle care about a horse-shoe nail. 
"HI. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to 
ones o^vn business; but to these we must add frugality, if we 
would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may 
if he knows not how to save as he gets, 'keep his nose aU his life to 
the gnndstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen 
makes a lean will;' and 

'Many estates are spent in the getting, 

Since women for tea forsook spinninR and knitting, 

And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting.' ' 

'If you would be wealthy, think of saving, as weU as of gettincr 
The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are 
greater than her incomes.' 

"Away, then, with your expensive folhes, and you wiU not then 
have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and 
chargeable famihes; for — 

'Women and wine, game and deceit, 

Make the wealth small, and the want great.- 

And further, 'What maintains one vice, would bring up two chil- 
dren.' You may think, perhaps, that a httle tea or a httle punch 
now and then, diet a httle more costly, clothes a little finer, and a 
httle entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; but 
remember, 'Many a little makes a mickle.' Beware of little ex- 
penses; 'A smaU leak will sink a great ship,' as poor Richard says- 
and agam, 'Who dainties love, shaU beggars prove;' and moreover, 
'Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.' Here you are aU got 
together to this sale of fineries and nicknacks. You caU them 
goods; but, if you do not care, they wiU prove evils to some of 
11 



102 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

you. You expect tliey will be sold cheap, and, perhaps, they may 
for less than they cost; but, if you have no occasion for them, they 
must bo dear to you. Eemember what poor Eichard says: 'Buy 
those that thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy 
necessaries.' And again, 'At a great pennyworth pause a while;' 
he means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not 
real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do 
thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, 'Many 
have been ruined by buying good pennyworths.' Again, 'It is fool- 
ish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;' and yet this 
folly is j)racticed every day at auctions, for want of minding the 
Almanack. Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back, have 
gone with a hungry belly, and half starved their famihes; 'silks 
and satins, scarlet and velvets put out the kitchen fire,' as pooi' 
Eichard says. These are not the necessaries of life; they can 
scarcely be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they look 
pretty, how many want to have them ! By these and other extrava- 
gances, the greatest are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow of 
those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and 
frugality, have maintained their standing; in which case it appc^ars 
plainly, tliat 'A plowman on his legs is higher than a gentleman 
on his knees,' as poor Eichard says. Pexhaps they have had a small 
estate left them, which they knew not the getting of ; they think, 
'It is day, and will never be night;' 'that a little to be spent out of 
so much is not worth minding; but 'Always taking out of the meal- 
tub and never putting in soon comes to the bottom,' as poor Eich- 
ard says; and then 'When the well is dry, they know the worth of 
water.' But this they might have known before, if they had taken 
his advice. 'If you would know the value of money, go and try to 
borrow some; for he that goes a borrowing goes a sorrowing,' as 
poor Eichard says; and, indeed, so docs he that lends to such people, 
when he goes to get it in again. Poor Dick further advises, and 
says,— 

'Fond pride of dress Is sure a very curse; 
Ere fancy you consult, consult your purse.' 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. US 

A„,lagau,, .r„,fc i.s as lon.l a l«jgar as wa„t, and a grcal deal 
more saucy.' Wl,on you have l,„„gU „„, nne thing, yo™, 
my en more, tl,at your appearance n,ay be aU „f "a'piee; b„ 

ape the ueh, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox. 

'Vessels large may venture more, 

But little boats should keep near shore.* 

says''«Lt twT ' '"''' ""^ ^""^^^^'= for, as poor Richard 
says Prde that diucs on vanity sups on contempt; pride break- 

And after all of what use is this pride of appearance, for which 
BO much IS nsked, so much is suffered. It cannot promote hi th 
nor ease pam; .t makes no increase of merit in the person; it t 
ates envy, it hastens misfortune. 

fl.,r "■^''\r.^''* '''''^"''' '* '''"'* ^' *° ™^ "^ ^^e^t for these super- 

crecht, and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, 
because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fin 

you g.ve to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay a 
the tmie. you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in 

ba e,downright lying; for 'The second vice is lying; the first is run- 
ning in debt, as poor Eichard says: and again, to the same pur- 
pose. 'Lying rides upon debt's back;' whereas a freeborn English- 
man ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any 
man hving. But poverty often deprives a man of aU spirit and 
virtue 'It IS hard for an empty l)ag to stand upright.' What 
would you think of that Prince, or of that Government, who should 
issue an edict forbidding you to dress Hke a gentleman or gen- 
tlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would you not 
say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, and' 



1(1 1 'I'KllAMtMvKS I-UDIM 'I'lIK IMl()SI''. \V()UI,I). 

(hat ;mhIi nil <>(lifl. woiiM lu> :i Itrcacli ol" voiir |invil(>,";i's, mikI uiicli 
II govniiiiHMil. I.yniiiniriir.' niid yv\. _vi>ii fiiimlionl. lo |)iil. yoiirncir 
iiiult'i' Mini. I.'viuiiiiv, wluMi _v*>u nm in dt'lil. lor wiu-li (1i«>sm! Your 
cK ililof liiiM imlJioril V, tit liin |il»>iisiir«>, t*» «l«'|)rivo you <'l yoiir liluMly, 
l»y I onriniii;'; yiMi in ,";om1 lor life, or l»y .-u"!!!!!,"; you lor ii HtMvant, il 
you nhoiiM not bo iiMo to pay him. VViioii yt>ii liavo j^ot your har- 
^riiin, you luay, jit'ihapH, iJiiiik httli> of payintMit; hut, aHj>oor Ivicli- 
anl diiyH, 'croditors liavo hotl.or ni(Miiori<'M than drlttors; cnMhtorK 
iiro III nuporatitioiis Hoot, yjvni ohM(>ry*>rH of tlavH and tiinos.' Tho 
duy ooiiK^M rotiud hofon* you avo awan*. imd llu< (hMiiand ia made 
horon> you aio luiparod to watisfy it; ov, il" you lu^ir yiMir dohl in 
mind, Iho lorm wliii-h »tt lirat himmiumI ao hul•^ will as it lossiMia, 
np|UMir oNlromcly ahort: 'I'imo will atu'm to have adihnl wiiij-ts to 
hia lioi'la aa well aa his shouldois. 'Tlutso hay<< a ahort luMd., who 
owo inoiu'v lo ho paid at i'laalor." At jn"«'Hont, porhups, yon may 
IhiuK youi:it>lvoa in thri\in«'; circuniHtancoa, and (hat you can lu-ar 
a hlll(> o\(.iaya|ja.nt'(> without injury; hu(, 

'Vor nji«' H"<1 want ».'*vo >vliUi> y<Mi im»y_ 
No i\u<i'i\li\ti niiit liiMtN a wl\oI() tliiY. ' 

'(lain may in* ttMuporary and unoortain; hut oyor, Nvhil«\you liyo, 
oxponao ia i'onH(ant aiul ('c>r(ain; and *lt is t»asior to huild tworhim 
U(\ys (han (o koop t>no in I'uol,' aa poor Uiohanl aav.-i' si», 'KailuM" 
go to hod aupp»M"l«'aa than riao in tloht." 

Mot whttt you cniv, noit ultul you (tot UoKt, 

"rill (hi> tilouo Uiiil wlU t'lirn aU your \otn\ (iilo iroM.' 

And, whou you hayo (^v>t i\w pliiloaojdior'a atotio, suro you will no 
huigor oomjdain of had tinioa, or tho ditVu'ulty of payinit ta\i>s. 

"l\'. Tliia doo( lino, my fririida, is ri\ason and wisdom; hut, 
aftor all, ilo not dopond loo niiu'li upon your own iiulustry and frn- 
jV'ality, nnd pnul«MU'«\ thouoh o\i'i>llont tliinj^s; fi>r (hi>y may all ho 
hiastoil wi(.luMit tlu> hlt^ssiuj^ o( HoaytMi; and tlu>roforo, ask that 
hlossin.s' huiuhly, and ho not unoharitahli^ (o (hoso (hat at ju-osont 
Hoom io want it. but tv>nifort and lu^lji thom. IvonuMuhtU', iloh snf- 
tiMod, and was aftiM'ward prosporous. 

"And now (o oonohido, 'MxpiM-iiMU'i' k(>t'ps a doar si'htnd. hut 



'.I'iM.AH III';,'! I'lioM 'I'lii'; riu)Hi'; vvoiii-D. 



k;.'; 



I'oolii will l('(i.ni ill MO olJii'i',' lui poor UicJiiuil iiiiyii, iunl iiciu'cit in 
l.liiii; lor il, III (.riic, '\vii iiiii,y i^vn lulvic-o, Ixil. v/n f.iuiiioi, jmvi' con 
diicL.' llovv<tv<!r, rt^nicnilx'r iliiii, 'TIk^y iJiiil. will nol, ln' coiiniKiloil, 
ciMiiiol, 1)0 liol|)(!(l;' iMiil I'lirUior, Uiii,l,, 'If yon will noL Ik'ht rmiHoii, 
iilio will Hiirdy r;i|t your kniicldoii,' lui jioor Iticliiird iiii.yii." 

'I'liiiH l/lio oM f.M'iiM(!ni)Ui (tntlod liiii luinuif-Mio. 'I'lio |M'(i)iln 
!i(!iu'(l il., luiil )i.|i|irovoil Uio (loct.rinc, immI iiiinicdial.oly imu'Uc.cd Uio 
('oiiLrirry , jniil/ im( iI iI. Ii;i,d ln'cii ii, i-dniiiion iirrtnon; for Uii' tiiiiijuii 
opcnofl, iiji I l-licy |)C(-^iiii (,o liny (!xl,ni,vii|.pi.nl,ly. I found (,lio (mmkI 
niiin liiul flioroii^^lily iiLiidic^d AliniMiiuJi, luid dif-roHf.cd nil I IiimI 
dropped on i,li<iui l.opicii diirin;^ Mio c.oiiriin (tf UvcnI.y livo y(^ii,rn. 
'I'lio fr<u|iMtni> irKtnl.ion lio niiulii of nin niiuifi liiivn fired iiiiyoiin t^liic; 
hill, iny vii.nify wn,n wonderfully delifdii.ed vvil.li il., l.lioii;/li I wiiH con- 
Heionii lJi;il. nol, ii, feiifli pail, of flii^ wiiidoin Wiiii my own wlii'li ho 
iLHorihod Lome; hnl. r:i.flier fhe fdeiuiin.'Ni flui,l. 1 liiul niii.dt! of Lho 
H(!nHo of iiJI H/N'ii luid nii.fionii. Ilowver, I roHolvod l.o ))(> l.lio l»ol,l,or 
for lJi(i<ielio of il.; JMid l,lionj.;li I liiul ii,l, lirHl, dofcinninod l,o hiiy ftliilf 
for II, new ••on,!,, I wenl, ii,wii,y, reiiolved l,o w(^ii,r my old oik! ii, liillo 
lorifMn'. Itoinler, if fhon will, do l.lie iiiuiie, l.hy prolii, will ho an 
{^'[ntal, ii,K mine. I lun, lui over, Mnri<; i,o iiervo l.lioo. 




1G6 TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 



Putting Up Stoves. 

Ono "who has had coiisidorahlo cxporioiico in the Mork of 
putting np stoves says the hrst step to he taken is to put on a very 
old and ragged coat, under tlie impression that -whoii he gets his 
niouih full oi plaster it ^vill keep his shirt-hosom clean. Next he 
gets his hands inside the place \vhere the pipe ought to go, and 
hlacks his fingei-s, and then ho carefully makes a hlack mark down 
one side of his nose. It is impossihle to make any headway, in 
doing this work, until this mark is made down the side of tlie nose. 
Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to hegin 
the ceremony. The head of tlie family, who is tlie hig goose of the 
sacrifice, grasps one side of the bottom of the stove, and his wife 
and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load 
is started from the wood-shed toward the parlor. Going through 
the door, the head of tlie family will carefully swing his side of the 
stove around, and jamb his thumh-nail against the door-post. This 
part of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove com- 
fortably in plaoe, the next thing is to find tlie legs. Two of tliese 
are left inside tlie stove since the Spring before ; tbe other two must 
be hunted after for twenty-live minutes. They are usually found 
under the coal. Then the head of the family holds up one side of 
the stove while liis wife puts two of the legs in place, and next he 
holds up tlie otlior side while tlic other two are lixed, and one of 
the first two falls out. By the time the stove is on its legs he gets 
reckless, oaid takes off his coat, regardless of his hnen. Then l>e 
goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in his eye. It don't make 
any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will he 
found a little too short or a httlc too long. The head of the family 
jambs his liat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes 
to the tin-shop to have it lixed. When he gets back he steps up on 
one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife 
makes him get doyni for fear he AviU scratch tlie varnish off from 



TREASUllES I'ROM THE PROSE WOW.i). 107 

tlio chair with the nails in his boot-heel. In getting down he will 
surely step on the cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the hahy. 
Then he gets an old chair, and clinihs up to the chimney again, 
U) find that in cutting the pipe off, tlie end has been left too big for 
the hole in the chimney. 80 he goes to the wood-shed and splits 
one end of the pijjo with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to 
make it Hmalicr. Fijjahy he gets the pipe in sliapo, and finds that 
the stove does n<;t stand tnae. Then himself and wife and the 
li.red girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall oui^ again. 
Next it is to move to the right. More difficulty with tlie legs. 
Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the 
cliirnney, and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. 
While i^uttiijg the Ijlocks under the legs the pipe comes out of tlie 
chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over, to the 
great alarm of the wife. Head of the family gets the dinner-table 
out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and 
baliinces himself on it, to drive some nails into the ceiling. l>rops 
the hammer onto wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, makes 
a wire swing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little 
there, takes a long breath and announces the ceremony completed. 
Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruined his reputation 
if he had. 




168 TREASUEES FEOM THE THOSE WORLD. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE was born in Salem, Mass., 
July 4, 1804, and he died in Plymouth, N. H., May 19, 
1804. His father died -when Nathaniel was six years of age. 
At ten, on account of feeble health, he was taken to live 
on a farm in Maine. He studied at Bowdoin College, and 
received his degree in 1825. This gifted author was a class- 
mate of our loved and lamented Longfellow. Hawthorne's 
first work was a collection of stories entitled Tivice Told Tales, 
which, though praised by Longfellow, produced no special 
impression upon the public. 

His reputation was fully established by the picturesque 
and powerful romance, Tlte Scarlet Letter, published in 1850. 
This work carried his name across the waters, and gave him 
prominence in England. In 1851 appeared The House of the 
Seren Gables. In 1852 he wrote the biography of his college 
friend, Franklin Pierce, then a candidate for the presidency. 

He published an Italian romance, called Tlie Marble 
Faun, in 18G0 ; and his impressions of England, under the 
title of Our Old Home, in 1863. The Wonder Book, The Snow 
Image, Tanglewood Tales, and True Stories from H'istori/ and 
Biography are among his excellent works. Six volumes of 
his Note Books have been published since his death, and 
Septimus Felton, a posthumous romance, has appeared in the 
[AtUintic Monthly.] Hawthorne's literary works fill twenty-one 
volumes. 

In addition to his literary work, he held important po- 




NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 



TREASURES FIIOM 'I'HI'; J'ROKK V,'Ol!r,0. Hjf) 

HitioiiH urulor our fijovornmont. Tn 184G ho waH appointod 
Kurvoyor of tlus })()rt of Siilcm. IIo wan romovoJ from olli'io 
in 184!), wluai flu; Wliif^H rcturiiod to |)owor. Ilin oollogo 
frioiid, i^'iiinlJin I'iorfio, u[)ori liJH iicocHHi'oM to the prosidoncy, 
{^'!iv(! Jlawthonio the place of coiiHul^to Liverpool, a posiiion 
worili about $25,000 per year. In 1857 Hawthorne rettigned, 
and Hpent nevural years with liiH family in trav(;h'rig in I*' ranee 
and Italy. 

In the Spring of 1804, Ixiin^' in feeble health, he started 
with rjx-ProHident Pi(jn;(! for a tour in the White Mountains. 
They Htopj)ed over ni^dit at Plymf)iith, N. ]I., and in the 
morning Pierce found his friend, the subject of our sketch, 
dead in his Ixid. 

It is claimed that "he wrote the cleanest and most effect- 
ive English of any American who has ever put pen to paper. " 

Underwood, in his /[andhook of FjikjIIhIl Lllerafure, thus 
closes his sketch of Hawthorne: "The judifu'ous critic in 
time comes to hesitate about giving estimates of greater and 
less. It is not easy to compare the dissimilar, but conveni(;nt 
rather to take refuge in the saying of Paul : 'One star dififer- 
eth from another star in glory.' The genius of Hawthorne 
was unique ; as the Germans say of Jean Paul liichter, he 
was Ifawfhorne the Onlj/; his niche in the temple of fame 
will not be claimed by another." 



#XX^ 



170 TBEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 



Buds and Bird Voices, 

The lilac-shrubs under my study windows are almost in leaf; 
in two or three days more I may put forth my hand and pluck the 
topmost bough in its freshest green. These lilacs are very aged, and 
have lost the luxuriant foliage of their prime. The heart, or the 
judgment, or the moral sense, or the taste, is dissatisfied with their 
present aspect. Old age is not venerable when it embodies itself 
in lilacs, rose bushes, or any other ornamental shrub; it seems as 
if such plants, as they grow only for beauty, ought to flourish 
always in immortal youth, or at least to die before their sad decrep- 
itude. Trees of beauty are trees of paradise, and therefore not 
subject to decay by their original nature, though they have lost that 
precious birthright by being transplanted to an earth soil. There 
is a kind of ludicrous imfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and 
grandfatherly lilac bush. The analogy holds good in human life. 
Persons who can only be graceful and ornamental — who can give 
the world nothing but flowers — should die young and never be seen 
with gray hair and wrinkles, any more than the flower shrubs with 
mossy bark and bhghted foliage, hke the lilacs under my window. 
Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortahty; no, the beau- 
tiful should live forever, — and thence, perhaps, the sense of impro- 
priety when we see it triumphed over by time. Apple-trees, on the 
other hand, grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as 
they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape 
they j)lease, and deck their Avithered limbs with a spring-time gau- 
diness of pink blossoms; still they are respectable, even if they 
afford us only an apple or two in a season. Those few apples, — or, 
at all events, the remembrance of apples in by-gone years — are the 
atonement which utilitarianism inexorably demands for the privi- 
lege of lengthened life. Human flower-shrubs, if they grow old on 
earth, should, besides their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 171 

that will satisfy earthly appetites ; else neither man nor the deco- 
rum of nature -will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them. 
One of the first things that strikes the attention when the white 
sheet of Winter is withdrawn, is the neglect and disarray that lay 
hidden heneath it. Nature is not cleanly according to our preju- 
dices. The beauty of preceding years, now transformed to brown 
and blighted deformity, obstructs the brightening loveHness of the 
present hour. Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of autumn's 
withered leaves. There are quantities of decayed branches which 
one tempest after another has flung down, black and rotten, and 
one or two with the ruin of a bird's nest clinging to them. In the 
garden are the dried bean vines, the brown stalks of the asparagus 
bed, and melancholy old cabbage, which were frozen into the soil 
before their unthrifty cultivator could find time to gather them. 
How invariably, throughout all the forms of life, do we find these 
intermnigled memorials of death ! On the soil of thought and in 
the garden of the heart, as well as in the sensual world, lie withered 
leaves, — the ideas and feelings that we have done with. There is 
no wind strong enough to sweep them away ; infinite space will not 
garuer them from our sight. What mean they? Why may we not 
be permitted to live and enjoy, as if this were the first life and our 
own the primal enjoyment, instead of treading always on these 
dry bones and moldering rehcs, from the aged accumulation cf 
which springs all that now appears so young and new? Sweet must 
have been the Spring-time of Eden, when no earlier year had strewn 
its decay upon the' virgin turf, and no former experience had ripened 
into Summer and faded into Autumn in the hearts of its inhabitants ! 
That was a world worth living in. thou murmurer, it is out of 
the very wantonness of such a life that thou feignest these idle 
lamentations. There is no decay. Each human soul is the first- 
created inhabitant of its own Eden. We dwell in an old moss- 
covered mansion, and tread in the worn foot-prints of the past, and 
have a gray clergyman's ghost for our daily and nightly inmate ; 
yet all these outward circumstances are made less than visionary 
by the renewing power of the spirit. Should the spirit ever lose 



172 TBEASURES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. 

this power, — should the withered leaves and rotten branches, and 
the moss-covered house, and the ghost of the gray past ever become 
its reahties, and the verdure and the freshness merely its faint 
dream, — then let it pray to be released from earth. It will need the 
air of heaven to revive its pristine energies. 

What an unlooked-for flight was this from our shadowy avenue 
of black ash and balm-of-Gilead trees into the infinite! Now we 
have our feet again upon the turf. Nowhere does the grass spring 
up so industriously as in this homely yard, along the base of the 
stone wall, and in the sheltered nooks of the buildings; and espe- 
cially around the southern doorstep, — a locality which seems par- 
ticularly favorable to its growth, for it is already tall enough to bend 
over and wave in the wind. I observe that several weeds, and most 
frequently a plant that stains the fingers with its yellow juice — have 
survived and retained their freshness and sap throughout the Winter. 
One knows not how they have deserved such an exception from the 
common lot of their race. They are now the patriarchs of the 
departed year, and may preach mortality to the present generation 
of flowers and weeds. 

Among the dehghts of Spring, how is it jjossible to forget the 
birds? Even the crows were welcome as the sable harbingers of a 
brighter and livelier race. They visited us before the snow was off, 
but seem mostly to have betaken themselves to remote depths of the 
woods, which they haunt all summer long. Many a time shall I 
disturb them there, and feel as if I had intruded among a company 
of silent worshipers, as they sit in Sabbath stillness among the 
tree tops. Their voices, when they speak, are in admirable accord- 
ance with the tranquil sohtude of a summer afternoon ; and resound- 
ing so far above the head, their loud clamor increases the religious 
quiet of the scene instead of breaking it. A crow, however, has no 
real pretentions to rehgion, in spite of his gravity of mien and black 
attire; he is certainly a thief, and probably an infidel. The gulls 
are far more respectable, in a moral point of vicAV. These denizens 
of sea-beaten rocks and haunters of the lonely beach come uj) our 
inland river at this season, and soar high overhead, flapping their 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 173 

broad wings in the upper sunshine. They are among the most pic- 
turesque of birds, because they so float and rest upon the air as to 
become almost stationary parts of the landscape. The imagination 
has time to grow acquainted with them; they have not flitted away 
in a moment. You go up among the clouds and greet these lofty- 
fhghted gulls, and rej)ose confidently with them upon the sustaining 
atmosphere. Ducks have their haunts along the solitary places of 
the river, and alight in flocks upon the broad bosom of the over- 
flowed meadows. Their flight is too rapid and determined for the 
eye to catch enjoyment from it, although it never fails to stir uj) 
the heart with the sportsman's ineradicable instinct. They have 
now gone farther northward, but will visit us again in Autumn. 

The smaller birds, — the httle songsters of the woods, and those 
that haunt man's dweUings and claim human friendshij) by building 
their nests under the sheltering eaves or among the orchard trees, — 
these require a touch more delicate and a gentler heart than mine 
to do them justice. Their outburst of melody is like a brook let 
loose from wintry chains. We need not deem it a too high and sol- 
emn word to call it a hymn of praise to the Creator, since Nature, 
who pictures the reviving year in so many sights of beauty, has 
expressed the sentiments of renewed Ufe in no other sound save the 
notes of these blessed birds. Their music, however, just now, seems 
to be incidental, and not the result of a set purpose. They are dis- 
cussing the economy of life and love, and the site and architecture 
of their Summer residences, and have no time to sit on a twig and 
pour forth solemn hymns, or overtures, operas, symphonies, and 
waltzes. Anxious questions are asked; grave subjects are settled in 
quick and animated debate ; and only by occasional accident, as 
from pure ecstacy, does a rich warble roU its tiny waves of golden 
sound through the atmosphere. Their httle bodies are as busy as 
their voices; they are in constant flutter and restlessness. Even 
when two or three retreat to a tree toj) to hold council, they wag 
their tails and heads all the time with the irrepressible activity of 
their nature, which perhaps renders their brief span of life in real- 
ity as long as the patriarchal age of sluggish man. The black-birds, 



174 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

three species of which consort together, are the noisiest of all -onr 
feathered citizens. Great companies of them — more than the 
famous "four-and-twenty" whom Mother Goose has immortalized — 
congregate in contiguous tree tops, and vociferate with aU the clamor 
and confusion of a turbulent poUtical meeting. Pohtics, certainly, 
must he the occasion of such tumultuous debates; but still, unlike 
aU other poHticians, they instill melody into their individual utter- 
ances, and produce harmony as a general effect. Of all bird voices, 
none are more sweet and cheerful to my ear than those of swallows, 
in the dim, sun-streaked interior of a lofty barn; they address the 
heart with even a closer sympathy than robin -redbreast. But, in- 
deed, all these winged people, that dwell in the vicinity of home- 
steads, seem to partake of human nature, and possess the germ, if 
not the development, of immortal souls. We hear them saying 
their melodious prayers at morning's blush and eventide. A httle 
while ago, in the deep of night, there came the lively thrill of a 
bird's note from a neighboring tree, — a real song, such as greets 
the purple dawn or mingles with the yellow sunshine. "What could 
the little bird mean by pouring it forth at midnight? Probably the 
music gushed out of the midst of a dream in which he fancied him- 
self in paradise with his mate, but suddenly awoke on a cold, 
leafless bough, with a New England mist penetrating through his 
feathers. That was a sad exchange of imagination for reahty. 



Spring. 



Thank Providence for Spring! The earth and man liimself, 
by sympathy wdth his birthplace, would be far other than we find 
them if life toiled wearily onward without this periodical infusion 
of the primal spirit. Will the world ever be so decayed that Spring 
may not renew its greenness? Can man be so dismally age-stricken 
that no faintest sunshine of his youth may revisit him once a year? 
It is impossible. The moss on onr time-worn mansion brightens 



TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD 175 

into beauty ; the good old pastor who once dwelt here renewed his 
prime, regained his boyhood, in the genial breezes of his ninetieth 
spring. Alas for the worn and heavy soul if, whether in youth of 
age, it has outhved its privilege of Spring-time sprighthness ! From 
such a soul the world must hope no reformation of its evil, no sym- 
pathy with the lofty faith and gallant struggles of those who con - 
tend in its behalf. Summer works in the present, and thinks not 
of the future; Autumn is a rich conservative; Winter has utterly 
lost its faith, and clings tremidously to the remembrance of what 
has been ; but Spring, with its outgushing life, is the true type of 
movement. 



Autumn at Concord, Massachusetts. 

Alas for the Summer ! The grass is still verdant on the hills 
and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense as ever, and 
as green ; the flowers are abundant along the margin of the river, 
and in the hedge-rows, and deep among the woods; the days, too, 
are as fervid as they were a month ago; and yet, in every breath 
of Avind and in every beam of sunshine, there is an Autumnal influ- 
ence. I know not how to describe it. Methinks there is a sort of 
coolness amid all the heat, and a mildness in the brightest of the 
simshine. A breeze cannot stir without thriUing me with the 
breath of Autumn ; and I behold its pensive glory in the far, golden 
gleams among the huge shadows of trees. 

The flowers, even the brightest of them, the golden-rod and 
the gorgeous cardinals — the most glorious flowers of the year — have 
this gentle sadness amid their pomp. Pensive Autumn is expressed 
in the glow of every one of them. I have felt this influence earher 
in some years than in others. Sometimes Autumn may be per- 
ceived even in the early days of July. There is no other feeling like 
that caused by this faint, doubtful, yet real perception, or rather 



176 TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

prophecy of the year's decay, so deliciously sweet and sad at the 
same time. 

I scarcely remember a scene of more complete and lovely 
seclusion than the passage of the river through this wood (North 
Branch). Even an Indian canoe, in olden times, could not have 
floated onward in deeper solitude than my boat. I have never 
elsewhere had such an opportunity to observe how much more 
beautiful reflection is than what we call reahty. The sky and the 
clustering foliage on either hand, and the effect of sunhght as it 
found its way through the shade, giving hghtsome hues in contrast 
with the quiet depth of the prevaihng tints — all these seemed un- 
surpassably beautiful when beheld in upper air. But on gazing 
downward, there they were, the same even to the minutest partic- 
idar, yet arrayed in ideal beauty, which satisfied the spirit incom- 
parably more than the actual scene. I am half convinced that the 
reflection is indeed the reality, the real thing which nature imper- 
fectly images to our grosser sense. At any rate the disembodied 
shadow is nearest to the soul. There were many tokens of Autumn in 
this beautifid picture. Two or three of the trees were actually 
dressed in their coats of many colors — the real scarlet and gold 
which they wear before they put on mourning. 

There is a pervading blessing diffused over all the world. I 
look out of the window, and think; perfect day! beautiful 
Avorld! good God! And such a day is the promise of a bhssful 
eternity. Our Creator would never have made such weather, and 
given us the deep heart to enjoy it, above and beyond all thought, 
if he had not meant us to be immortal. It opens the gates of heaven, 
and gives us glimpses far inward. 



TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 177 



A Plea For the Erring. 

There are few subjects upon wliicli men are so likely to err in 
forming their judgments as in estimating the degrees of guilt in- 
volved in the conduct of their erring and depraved fellow men. 
Especially is this the case when the judgments are passed upon the 
poor and the outcast, — the unhappy persons who from infancy have 
lived in daily, communion with wretchedness and vice. In spite of 
Canniugs's sneer at the nice judge who 

" found with keen, discriminatinK sigrht, 

Black's not so black, nor white so very white." 

the doctrine thus ridiculed is nevertheless true in morals, if not in 
physics ; and not to recognize it is to incur the risk of undue harsh- 
ness in our estimates of our fellow men. If there is any one lesson 
which frequent intercourse with them teaches, it is the folly of at- 
tempting nicely to classify their characters, so as to place them 
distinctly among the sheep or the goats. Here and there a man is 
found who is almost wholly bad, and another who is almost whoUy 
good; but, in the infinite majority of cases, the problem is so com- 
plex as to defy all our powers of analysis. A young men's debating 
society may easily enough resolve that some famous man or woman 
was worthy of approbation or of reprobation ; but men of experience, 
who have learned the infinite comjilexity of human nature, know 
that a just judgment of human beings is not to be packed into any 
such summary formula. Even in judging our friends, whom we see 
daily, we make the grossest mistakes; they are constantly starthng 
us by acts which show us how little we know of the fathomless 
depths of their moral being. Plow, then, can we expect to judge 
accurately of those who are utter strangers to us, and by what right 
do we presume to place them irrevocably in our moral pigeon-holes? 
It is difficult to say how far in our judgments of the vilest men, 
— or those who seem to be such, — allowance should be made for 

12 



178 TKEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

perplexing circumstances, for temj)tations which we have never ex- 
perienced, and for motives which we can but partially analyze. 
Certain it is that they who, from their earliest years, have lived al- 
ways in affluence — who have never known the cravings of a hunger 
that they knew not how to satisfy, — who have been supplied with a 
constant succession of innocent pleasure to reheve the monotony 
of life, and with all the apphances of art to cheat pain of its 
sting, — have but a faint conception of the privations and anxieties, 
the irritating and maddening thoughts, that torture the victim of 
l^overty, and drive him, with an impulse dreadfully strong, to deeds 
of darkness and blood. 

Well did Maggie Mucklebacket, in Scott's novel, retort to the 
Laird of Monkbarns, when he expressed a hope that the distilleries 
would never work again: "Ay, it is easy for your honor, and the 
like o' you gentle folks, to say sae, that hae stouth and routh and 
fire and fending, and meat and claith, and sit dry and canny by the 
fireside; but an ye wanted fere, and meat and dry claise, and were 
deeing o' cauld, and had a sair heart into the bargain, which is 
warst ava, wi' just tippence in your pouch, wadna ye be glad to buy 
a dram wi't, to be eilchng, and claise, and a supper, and heart's 
ease into the bargain, till the morn's morning?" We may not ad- 
mit the strict logic of this apj)eal, for the dram is too often the cause, 
as well as the effect, of the absence of fire, and meat, and heart's 
ease ; but the fact upon which the poly-petticoated philosopher insists 
so pathetically is unquestionably a key, not only to nine-tenths of 
the vices, but also to many of the darkest crimes, that stain the an- 
nals of the poor. 

Easy, indeed, is it, for such persons as Maggie describes, — those 
for whom a serene and quiet life has been provided by fortune, — 
who are free from all harrassing cares, — their hveher and more 
errant feelings all settled down into torpidity, — with not even any 
tastes to lead astray, — nothing, in short, to do but to hve a hfe 
of substantial comfort within the easy boimds which worldly wis- 
dom prescribes, — easy is it for all these sleek and well-fed members 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 170 

of the venerable corps of "excessively good and rigidly righteous 
people," as Burns calls them, — 

"Whose life is like a weel gaun mill, — 

Supplied \vi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter," — 

to abstain from vice and crime ; for were they to be guilty of the 
outrageous sins of the distressed and tempted, they would be mon- 
sters indeed. But, before such sit in judgment on their fellow 
men, 

"Their dousie tricks, their black mistakes, 
Their failings and mischances," 

or boast of keeping their own feet within the prescribed bounds of 
virtue, would they not do well to ask themselves how many inward 
struggles this negative merit has cost them, or whether their cir- 
cumstances were not such as to render temptation to any glaring 
error impossible ? 

It is said that John Bunyan, seeing a drunkard staggering 
along the street, exclaimed, "There, but for the grace of God, goes 
John Bunyan!" "Tolerance," says Goethe, "comes with age. I 
see no fault committed that I myself coidd not have committed at 
some time or other." Truly, we have but to look into our own 
hearts to find the germ of many a crime which only our more fa- 
vored circumstances have prevented us from committing, and would 
wo ponder ou this thought with a wise humility, it might teach us, 
lu^t to paUiale or excuse, but "more gently to scan our fellow man," 
— to judge mercifully of the sinner while we hate the sin, — and, 
above all, meekly to thank God, not that we are better than other 
men, but that we, too, have not been brought into temptations too 
fiery for our strength. "No man," says the la.rge-hearted poet, 
Burn?, "can say in what degree any other persons, besides himself, 
can be with strict justice called "Avicked. Let any of the strictest 
character for regularity of conduct among us examine impartially 
hoAV many vices he has not been guilty of, not from any care or 
vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circum- 
stance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has 



180 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

escaped because lie was out of the line of such temptation; and 
what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much 
he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does 
not know all; I say, any man who can thus think, may view the 
faults and crimes of mankind around him with a brother's eye." 

It was in a land of harsh moralists, and in an age when little 
pity was shown to the erring, that Burns wrote these words ; but, 
thougli in these days a great advance has been made, it is doubtful 
if we yet have sufficient symj^athy for those who stray from the 
paths of virtue. We need again and again to be reminded that the 
bad are not all bad; that there is "a soul v'^f goodness in things evil;" 
and that in balancing the ledger of human conduct, we should 
juake a large subtraction from the bad man's debit side, as from the 
good man's credit side, of the account. Not more true is it that 
there are many "mute, inglorious Miltons," or "village Hampdens," 
whose lofty intellectual powers, like the music of an untouched in- 
strument, have remained dormant for the want of circumstances to 
call them forth, than that there sleep in the breast of many an in- 
nocent man impulses and tendencies of a wicked character, which 
need but the breath of occasion to start them into a giant life. The 
pregnant story of Hazel furnishes not the only instance of a nature 
which, in ordinary circumstances, was shocked at the very imjnita- 
tion of wrong, and yet, when clothed with despotic authority, 
exhibited all the odious features of the oppressor and the tyrant. 
"Nature," says the sententious Bacon, "may be buried a great while, 
and yet revive on the occasion of temptation ; like as it was with 
.Esop's damsel, turned from a cat to a woman, who sat very de- 
nuirely at the board's end till a mouse ran before her." 

It is a striking fact, noted by Sir Arthur Helps, that the man in aU 
England whose duty it is to know most about crime has been heard 
to say that he finds more and more to excuse in inen, and thinks 
better of lium.iu nature, even after tracking it through the most 
perverse and intolerable courses. It is the man who has seen most 
of his fellows, who is most tolerant of his fellow man. In the great 
Battle of Life, we may see many a fellow creature fall beneath a 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD/ 181 

temptation which from our own shield would have glauced harmless ; 
but let us reflect that, though we might have been adamant to this, 
there are a thousand other darts of Satan, better suited to our na- 
tures, by which, though pressing with less crushing force, wc might 
have perished without a struggle. Only the All-Seeing Eye can 
discern how far the virtues of any one are owing to a happy tem- 
perament, or from how many vices he abstains, not from any care 
or vigilance, but, as Burns says, "for want of opportunity, or sonxe 
accidental circumstances intervening." 

When Henry Martyn was in college he was such a slave to an- 
ger that ho one day hurled a knife with all his force at a fellow 
student, which might have killed or fearfully mutilated him, had it 
not missed the mark, and stuck in the wainscot of the room. 
'"Martyn," exclaimed his friend, in consternation, "if you do not 
learn to govern your temper, you will one day be hanged for mur- 
der!" He did learn to govern it; became meek and humble; won 
high honors in college; went to India as a missionary; distinguished 
himself as a linguist; translated the Testament into several lan- 
guages; and died, after doing and enduring avast deal to rescue the 
East from the darkness of paganism. What if, Avith his sensitive 
and fiery organism, he had been born amid the squalor and vice of 
St. Giles ? Or who can say what Martin Luther would have becomi\ 
if, born as he was with organs of destructivcness like those of a 
bull-dog, he had not been led by his rehgious training to employ his 
destructive energies in kilHng error instead of in killing humiin br- 
ings? An English writer was so struck with the prodigious energy, 
the native feral force of Chalmers, that he declared that had it not been 
intellcctualized and sanctified it would have made him, who was the 
greatest of orators, the strongest of ruffians, a mighty murderer 
upon the earth. On the other hand, who does not remember that 
even Nero, at one time of his life, could lament that he know hov/ 
to read or write, when called on to sign a death warrant. The 
colliers of Bristol had been noted for ages as among the most hard- 
ened and profligate of beings, till Whiteficld touched them one day 
with the wand of his magic eloquence. Even a Nancy Sykes, amid 



182 TEEASURES PEOM THE FliOSE WOELD. 

the grossest degradation, could do many virtuous actions; and the 
stern Milton has said that "it was from the rind of one apple that 
the knowledge of good and evil, as two t-^dns cleaving together, 
leaped forth into the world." ]\Ioderate,thcn, thou stern moral- 
ist ! thy harsh and iinrelenting views of human guilt: — 

"Still mark if vice or nature in-ompt the deed ; 
Still mark the strou;:; temptation or the need ; 
On pressing Avant, on famine's powerful call, 
At least more lenient let thy just ice fall; 
For him, \vho, lost to every hope of life. 
Has long with fortune held unc<iual strife. 
Known to no human love, no human care, 
The friendless, homeless objoet of despair; 
For the poor vuLrrant fool, while ho complains, 
Nor from sad freeilom send to sadder chains. 
Alike If fortune or misfortune brought 
Those last of woes his evil days have ^v^ought; 
Believe, with social mercy and with me, 
Folly's misfortune in the first degree." 



Shakespere's Style. 

Wortls in a master's hands seem more than words; he seems 
to douhle or quadruple their power by skill in using, giving them 
a force and significance which in the dictionary they never pos- 
sessed. Yet, mighty as is the sorcery of these wizards of Avords, 
that of Shakespere is still greater. The marvel of his diction is 
its immense suggestivencss, — the mysterious synthesis of sound 
and sense, of meaning and association, which characterizes his 
verso ; a necromancy to which Emerson alludes in a passage which 
is itself an illustration almost of the thing it describes. Speaking 
of the impossibility of acting or reciting Shakcspere's plays, he 
says: "The recitation begins, when lo! one golden word leaps out 
immortal from all this painted pedantry, and sweetly toiments us 
with in\-itations to its own inaccessible homes." 

Hardly less suiinising than this suggestiveness of Shakespere, 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WOIU.D. 



183 



is the variety of rliytlim in his tcn-syllaLle verse. We speak some- 
times of Shakespcrc's style; but we might as well speak of the style 
of "Rumor with her hundred tongues." Shakespcre has a multi- 
plicity of styles, varying with the ever varying character of his 
themes. The Proteus of the dramatic art, he identifies himself with 
each of his characters in turn, passing from one to another like 
the same soul animating different bodies. Like a ventriloquist, he 
throws his voice into other men's larynxes, and makes eveiy word 
appear to come from the person whose character he for the moment 
assumes. The movement and measure of Othello and The Tempest, 
Macbeth and the Midsummer Night's Dream, Lear and Coriolanus, 
are almost as different from each other as the rhythm of them all 
from that of Beaumont and Fletcher; and yet in every case the 
music or melody is a subtle accompaniment to the sentiment that 
ensouls the play. Whoever would know the exhaustless riches of 
our many-tongued language, its capability of expressing the dain- 
tiest delicacies and subtlest refinements of thought, as well as the 
grandest emotions that can thrill the human brain, should give his 
days and nights to the study of the myriad-souled poet. It may be 
doubted Avhctlicr there is any inflection of harmony, any witchery 
of melody, from the warble of the flute and the Ioav thrill of the 
flageolet to the trumpet-peal or the deep and dreadful sub-bass of 
the organ, which is not brought out in the familiar or the passion- 
ate tones of this imperial master. 



y'Z^.'^:>. ,^.t^. 



•ty^;^^ • (r~ ■-:_ -.jj^ 



184 TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON was born at Litchfield, Sept. 18, 1709. 
After having fought the early battles of life in feeble 
health and poverty, and without patronage, he gained a 
complete victory, placed himself at the head of English 
literatuie, and died in a serene and happy frame of mind on 
the 13th of December, 1784. 

Johnson had attended school at Oxford fourteen months 
when his father, a bookseller, met with misfortunes in trade, 
thereby forcing Samuel to leave school. In his short col- 
lege life, he distinguished himself by translating Pope's Mes- 
siah into Latin verse. To do Johnson justice in a brief 
sketch is impossible, but the plan of this book forbids more 
than the following summary of his work. Upon failure to 
found a private academy at Edial, near his native city, he 
determined to make authorship his profession. His first 
tragedy, Irene, was refused by stage managers, but his con- 
tributions to the Gentleman's Magazine were quite pojiular. 
He next wrote monthly reports of the proceedings of Parlia- 
ment, taking care to give the Tories the advantage over the 
Whigs. In 1738, appeared his poem of London, for which 
Dodsley gave him ten guineas. No name was signed to this 
poem, but Pope made inquiries after the author, saying such 
a man would soon be known. In 1744, he published the 
Life of Savar/e, late editor of the Gentleman's Majazine. "This 
admirable specimen of biography was published anony- 
mously', but it was known to be Johnson's." 

His reputation was so well established by this time that 
the chief booksellers of London engage<l him, for 1500 guin- 
eas, to prepare a Dictionary of the Enfjlish La)!i!f:tne. The 




DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON. 



TEEASUBES FBOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 185 

work was comploted in about seven years. Johnsoji's Dic- 
tionary became at once tlio standard authority in England. 
His Vanity of Tlii.innii, Wishes appeared in 1 748 ; Irene, for- 
merly refused, was brought out by Garrick in 1749. Jolm- 
son's other works were the Rambler, 1750-52 ;' the /(^/cr, 
1768-60 ; the tale of Rasselas, 1759. The last named was 
written to pay a debt, and also to pay the funeral expenses 
of his mother, who had died at the age of ninety. 

In 17G5 appeared his edition of Shakspere, and in 
1775 appeared his Lives of the Poets, the most interesting 
and valuable of his last works. 

Johnson is also numbered among the great poets. Sir 
Walter Scott has termed his poem, The Vanity of Human 
Wishes, a satire, the deep and pathetic morality of which 
has often extracted tears from those whose eyes wander dry 
over pages professedly sentimental. 

At the age of twenty-seven, he married Mrs. Porter, a 
widow who was in her forty-eightli year. In 1702, through 
the influenco of Lord Bute, the then all-potent minister of 
England, a pension of ,£300 was settled upon Johnson. In 
1773, at the ago of sixty-four, he commenced his celebrated 
journey to the Hebrides. The greater part of the journey 
he performed on horseback. His narrative of his travels 
is one of his most interesting works. His Tory principles 
led him to write two pamphlets in defense of the ministry 
and in bitter opposition to the claims of the Americans. In 
the literary club, including Burke, Keynolds, Goldsmith, Gib- 
bon, Murphy, and others, Johnson " reigned supreme, the 
most brilliant conversationalist of his age." " In massive 
force of understanding, multifarious knowledge, sagacity, and 
moral intrepidity, no writer of the eighteenth century sur- 
passes Dr. Samuel Johnson." 



186 TBEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



On Revenge. 

A wise lUiiu will make basic to forgive, because be knows tbo 
true value of time, aud will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary 
iKviu. lie tbat willingly suffers tlie corrosions of inveterate batreil, 
and gives up bis days and uigbts to tbc gloom and niiilice and per- 
turbations of strategem, cannot surely be said to consult bis case. 
Resentment is a union of sorrow witb malignity, a combination of 
a passion wbiob all endeavor to avoid, witb a passion wbicb all con- 
cur to detest. Tbe man wbo retires to meditate miscbief, and to 
exasperate bis own rage — wliose tbougbts are employed only on 
means of distress and contrivances of ruin — wliose mind never 
pauses for tbe remembrance of bis own sufferings, but to indulge 
some bope of enjoying tbe calamities of anotber — m:iy justly be 
numbered among tbe most miserable of buman beings, amoug 
tbose wbo are guilty witbout reward, wbo bave noitber tbe gladness 
of prosjierity nor tbo calm of innocence. Wboever considers tbe 
weakness botb of bimself and otbers, will not long want persua- 
sives to forgiveness. We know not to wbat degree of malignity 
any injury is to be imputed ; or bow mucb its guilt, if we were to 
inspect tbe mind of bim tbat committed it, would be extenuated by 
mistake, precipitance, or negligence; we cannot be certain bow 
mucb more we feel tban was intended to be inflicted, or bow mucb 
\\G increase tlie miscbief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. 
We may cbarge to design tbe effects of accident ; we may tbink tbe 
blow violent only because we bave made ourselves delicate and ten- 
dor; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt wbicb we 
are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. 

From tbis p.u'ific and barmless temper, tbus propitious to 
otbers and ourselves, to domestic tranquibty and to social bappi- 
ness, no man is witbbold but by pride, by tbe fear of being insulted 
by bis adversary, or despised by tbc world. It may be laid down 



TEEA8UBES lUiOM 'rill'l J'lUJSK WOi;J-l». JH? 

as an iiufiulijig unci iinivcrsul axiom, tliat 'all pritlc is abject antl 
mean.' It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acqnicHccncc in 
a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from conHcioiis- 
ness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. 

Nothing which reason condemns can be Huital)lo to tho dignity 
of the human mind. 

To bo driven l)y external motives from the path wlii( li om- own 
heart iipprovcs, to give way to anytliiiig but conviction, to suffer 
the oj)inion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, 
is to sul)mit tamely to tho lowest and most ignominious slavery and 
to resign the riglit of directing our own lives. 

Tlio utmost excellence at wliicli humanity can arrive is a con- 
stant and determinate pursuit of virtue witlu)ut regard to pi-escnt 
dangers OT advantages; a contimial reference of every action to the 
divine will; a hal)itual appeal to everlasting justice; and an unva- 
ried elevation of the intellectual eye to tho reward which persever- 
ance can only obtain. But that pride which many, who presume 
to boast of generous sentiments, allow to rcgulato their measures, 
has lujthing nobler in view than tho approbation of men; of beings 
whose superiority we are under no obligation to acknowledge, and 
who, when wo have courted them with tho utmost assiduity, can 
confer no valuable or permanent reward; of beings who ignorantly 
judge of what they do not understand, or partially determi:ie what 
they have never examined, and whose sentence is therefore of no 
weight, till it has received tho ratincatlon of our own conscience. 

He that can descend to l)ril)e suffrages like these at tho price of 
his iinioccnce — he that ca,n suffer tlic d(;light of such acela,inatif)ns 
to withhold his iitteiitioji from tlie conmiands of tho universal sov- 
ereign — lias little reason to congratulate himself upon tho greatness 
of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, ho 
must beeome despicable in his own eyes, and shrink witli sliame 
from tho remembrance of his cowardice and folly. 

Of him tliat hopes to 1)0 forgiven, it is indispensably required 
that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other mo- 



188 TREASUEES EROJI THE niOSE WCELD. 

fcivo. On this great duty eternity is susijended; and to him that 
refuses to practice it, tlie throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the 
Saviour of the Avorld has been born in vain. 



Old Age. 

I cannot tell where childhood ends, and manhood begins; nor 
■where manhood ends, and old age begins. It is a wavering and 
uncertain lino, not straight and doiinitc, "which borders bct^Yixt 
the two. But the outward characteristics of old age are obviou:; 
onough. The weight diminishes. Man is commonly heaviest jit 
forty; woman at fifty. After that, the body slirinks a littlo; tlio 
height shortens as the cartilages become thin and dry. TIjo hair 
whitens and falls away. The frame stoops, the bones beccmo 
smaller, feebler, have loss animal and more mere earthy matter. 
The senses decay, slowly and handsomely. The eye is not so sliavp, 
and while it penetrates further into space, it has loss power clearjy 
to define the outlines of what it sees. The ear is dull; the appetite 
less. Bodily heat is lower; the breath produces less cai-bonio aci 1 
than before. The old man consumes less food, water, air. The 
hands grasp less strongly; the feet less firmly tread. The lungs 
suck the breast of heaven with less powerful collapse. The eye and 
ear take not so strong a hold upon the world: — 

And tho biif nuvuly voioo; 
Turninsj iiiraiu to cliiUlish treble, pii>cs 
And whittles in Ium smunl. 

The animal life is making ready to go out. The very old man 
loves the sunshine and tho lire, the arm chair and the shady nook. 
A rude wind would jostle the full-grown apple from its bough, full- 
ripe, full-colorod, too. The internal charactorii>tics correspond. 
General activity is less. Salient love of new things and of new 



TREASUllEH KliOM 'I'lIK I'ltOSI'; \V()IlI,l>. 1H!) 

persons, wliicli lji(. ilu; youn^' JiuurK liciiii, I'imIch ;iw!iy. He tJiiiiKH 
iJu! old JH Ixiiicr. Jl(! JH Jiol, v(!iil.iir(!Soiii(;; lio l((M'|tH iii lioiiu!. I'an 
nion (;iicc Htuiig lum into quickened lile; now tlmi {^'iid-fly is no 
hioH! I)ii/,zinf^' ill liin earB, Mudiune de Stiiel iinds eonipciiHiition 
in ilricnco for tlio decay of tli(! i)ii>ssion Miid, once lired lierbJood; Imt 
lieallien SocraleH, Kevent.y yearn (dd, tlianlvH Uie f^odH that lie in now 
free from that "ravenous beaat," wiiicli had distnrhed Ihh philo- 
sophic meditatioriH for many a year. Romance in the child of I'mh- 
sion and Imaf^ination ; — the Hudden father that, the h^ng protracting 
mother tliis. Old age has little ronnince. Only some rare m'an, 
lilu! Willudmvon llumholdi, keeps it still fr(!sh in his bosoni. 

In intellectnal matters, the venerable man loves to nicjill the 
old times, to revive his favorite old men, — no new ouva half so 
fair. Ho in Honuir, Nestor, who is the oldc^st of the (Jreeks, is 
always talking of tlu; old times, before the gnuidfathers of men 
then living had come inl.o hfin;^; " not such ii,H live in th(!S(! d(!gen- 
eriitc days." Verse-loving John (^iiincy Adams tnrns olT from 
Byron and Shelhjy and Wiehind and (loetlu;, and returns to I'opo, 

wild ]>l('irs<:<l lilM cliilillioiiil luiil iiil'oriiKwl liiH yoiiMi. 

'J'he pleasuie of liojx! is smaJh'r; tha,t of nu.'mory greatcsr. It 
is exceedingly beautifid tli;i,t it is no. 'J'lie venerable man loves to 
set recollection to beat the roll-call, and summon up from the grave 
the old time, " the good old time," — the old places, old friends, 
old games, old talk; nay, to his ear the old familiar tunes arc 
sweeter than anything that Mendelssohn, or Strauss, or Rossini 
can bring to pass. I'jlder Brewster expects to hear St. Martins and 
Old Ihmdred chanted in Ucav(!n. Why not? To liim llejiven 
comes in the long used musical tradition, not in the neologies of 
sound. * * * * * * * 

1'hen the scholar becomes an antiquary; he lik(!S not young 
men unless he knew their gr;i,ndfathers b(;fore. TIk; young woman 
looks in the ne\VKpap(!r for tlus niarriag(;s, tlie old man, for iii(! 
deaths. The young man's eye looks forward; the world is " !ill 
before him where to choose." It is a hard world; he does not 



100 TKRASimKR PROM TT1F, rilOSK MDlU.n. 

know ii; ho works a little, aiul hopes much. The midiUc-iigcd 
lUitii looks iiroiuul at the present; ho has found out that it is a 
hard world; he hopes less and works more. The old inan looks 
hack on the Held ho haa trod; " this is the tree I planted; this is 
my footstep," and he loves his old house, his old carriage, cat, dog, 
stall, and friend. In lands where the vine grows, I have seen an 
old man sit all day long, a suuny autumn day, hofore his cottago 
door, in a groat arm-chair, his old dt>g crouched at his feet in tho 
gonial sun. Tho autumn wind played with tho old man's venera- 
ble hairs; above him on tho wall, purpling in tho sunhght, hung 
tho hill cluster of tho grape, ripening and maturing yet mere. Tho 
two were just alike; the wind stirred the vine leaves and tiiey fell; 
stirred the old man's hair and it whitened yet move. Both were 
Avaiting for the spirit in them to bo fully ripe. Tho young man 
looks forward ; the old man looks back. How long the shadows 
lie in the setting sun, the steeple a mile long reaching across tho 
plain, as the sun stretches out the hills in grotesque dimensions. 
iSo all tho events of life in the old man's consciousness. 



The Progress of Sin. 

I have soeti the little ]nirls oi n spring sweat through tlie bot- 
iom of a hank, and int(>nerate the stuhhorn pavoinent till it hatli 
made it lit for tlK> impression of a. child's foot; and it was despised, 
like the descending pearls of a misty morning, till it had opened its 
way and made a stream large enough to carry away tho ruins of 
tho undermined strand, and to invade the neighboring gardens; 
but then the dosjiised drops had grown into an artilicial river, and 
an intolerable mischief. So are tho iirst entrances of sin, stopped 
with the antid(4iOS of a hearty prayer, and chocked into sobriety by 
the eyi> of a reverend num, or the counsels of a single sermon; but 
when such beginnings are neglected, and our religion hath not in it 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. U)l 

so much philosophy as to think anything evil as long as wc can 
endure it, they grow up to ulcers and pestilential evils ; they destroy 
the soul hy their ahode, who at their first entry might have hcen 
killed with the pressure of a little finger. He that hath passed 
many stages of a good life, to prevent his heing tempted to a single 
sin, must be very careful that he never entertain his spirit with the 
remembrances of -his past sin, nor amuse it with the fantastic appre- 
hensions of the present. When the Israelites fancied the sapidness 
and relish of the flesh pots, they longed to taste and to return. 

So when a Libyan tiger, drawn from his wilder foragings, is 
shut up and taught to eat civil meat, and suffer the authority of a 
man, he sits down tamely in his prison and pays to his keeper fear 
and reverence for his meat; but if he chance to come again and 
taste a draught of warm blood, he presently leaps into his natural 
cruelty. He scarce abstains from eating those hands that brought 
him discipline and food. • • • • 

The Pannonian bears, when they have clasped a dart in the 
region of their liver, wheel themselves upon the wound, and with 
anger and malicious revenge strike the deadly barb deeper, and 
cannot be quit from that fatal steel, but, in flying, bear along that 
which themselves make the instrument of a more hasty death ; so, 
in every vicious person struck with a deadly wound, and his own 
hands force it into the entertainments of the heart; and because it 
is painful to draw it forth by a sharp and salutary repentance, he 
still rolls and turns upon his wound, and carries his death in his 
bowels, where it first entered by choice, and then dwelt by love, and 
at last shall finish the tragedy by divine judgments and an unal- 
te-^ble decree. 




192 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Marriage. 

Thoy that outer in the stiito of luiirriago cast a die of the greatest 
coutingoiicy and yet of the greatest interest in the world, next to 
the last throw for eternity. Life or death, fehcity or a lasting sor- 
row, are in the power of marriage. A woman, indeed, ventures 
most, for she has no sanctuary to retire to from an evil husband; 
she nmst dwell upon her sorrow, and hatch the eggs which her own 
folly or infelicity hat.h produced; and she is more nnder it, because 
her tormonti>r hath a warrant of prerogative, and the wonuin may 
complain tt) (rod, as subjects do of tyrant princes; but otherwise 
she has no appeal in the causes of unkindness. And though the 
man can run from many hours of his sadness, yet ho nmst return 
to it again; and whea he sits auunig his neighbors he renu'uib(>rs 
the objection that Ues ia his bosiua, aad lie sighs deeply. The boys 
aad the pedlers, ami the fruiterers, shall tell of this man whea he 
ia carried ti> his grave, that he lived and dieil a poor wretched 
person. 

The stags in tiie (J reek epigram, whose knees were clogged 
with frozen snow upon the mountains, came down to the brooks of 
the valleys, hoping to thaw tlieir joints with the waters of the stream; 
but there tJio frost overtook them, and bound them fast in ice, till 
the young herdsmen took them in their stranger snare. It is 
the unhappy chance of many men; linding many inconveniences 
upon tlio mountains of single life, thoy descend into the valleys of 
marriage to refresh their troubles; and there they enter into fetters, 
and are bound to sorrow by the chords of a man or woman's 
peevishness. 

l\[an and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of 
each i>ther in the beginning of their conversatimi; every little thing 
can blast an infant blossom, and the breath of tlie Soutli can 
shake the littJe rings of the vine, when tiist they begin to curl like 
the locks of a new Aveaned boy; but when by age and consolidation 
they stitliMi in the hardness of a stem, and have, by the warm em- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD, 103 

braces of tho sun and tlic kisses of the licavcn, brought forth their 
chisters, they can endure the stonns of tho North, and tlio loud 
noises of a tempest, and yet never be broken : so arc the early unions 
of an luifixed marriage; watchful and observant, jeiilous and busy, 
inquisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every unkind woi-d. 
After the hearts of tho man and tho wife arc endeared and hiird- 
ened by a muiual confidence and experience, longer than artifice and 
pretense can last, there are a great many remembrances, and some 
things present, that dash all unkindnosscs in pieces. • • • • 

There is nothing can please a man without love ; and if a man 
be weary of tho wise discourses of tho apostles, and of the innoccncy 
of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace, or a fruitful 
year, ho hath reaped thorns and thistles from tho choicest flowers 
of Paradise, for nothing can sweeten felicity itself but love; but 
when a man dwells in love, then the breasts of his wife are pleasant 
as the droppings upon the hill of Ilermon; her eyes are fair as the 
light of heaven; she is a fountain scaled, and ho can quench his 
thirst, and ease his cares, and lay his sorrows down upon hor laj), 
and can retire home to his sanctuary and refectory, and his gardens 
of sweetness and cha,ste refreshments. No man can tell Ijtit ho that 
loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's liciu't 
dance in tho pretty conversation of those dear pledges; their child- 
ishness, their stannnoring, their little angers, their innocence, tlieir 
imperfections, their necessities, are so ma)iy little emanations of 
joy and comfort to him that delights in tlieir persons and society. 
• • • • It is fit that I should infuse a bunch of myrrh into tlie fes- 
tival goblet, and, after the Egyptian manner, servo up a dead man's 
bones at a feast ; I will only shew it, and take it away again ; it will 
make tho wine bitter, but wholesome. But those married pairs 
that live as remembering that they must part again, and give an 
account how they treat themselves and each other, shall, at that 
day of their death, be admitted to glorious espousals; and when 
tliey shall live iigain, be married to their Lord, and partake of his 
glories with Abraliam and Joseph, 8t. Peter and St. Paul, and ;ill 
tho married saints. All those things that now please us shall 



194 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

pass from us, or wc from Uifui; but those things that concern the 
other hfe arc permanent as the numbers of eternity. And although 
at the resurrection there shall be no relation of husband and wife, 
and iio marriage shall be celebrated but the marriage of the Lamb, 
yet then shall be remembered how men and women passed through 
this state, which is a tj'pe of that; and from this sacramental miiou 
all holy pairs shall pass to the spiritual and eternal, where love 
shall be their portion, and joys shall crown their heads, and they 
shall he in the bosom of Jesus, and in the heart of God, to eternal 



The Skylark. 



For so I have seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and 
soaring upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven 
and climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with 
the loud sighings of an eastern Avind, and his motion made irregu- 
lar and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest 
than it could recover by the vibration and frequent weighing of his 
wings, till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and 
stay till the storm was over; and tlieu it made a prosperous flight, 
and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from 
an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air, about his minis- 
tries here below. 




TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 195 



The Blind Preacher. 

I have been, uiy dear S , on an excursion through the 

counties which he along the eastern side of the Bhie Kidge. A 
general description of that country and its inhabitants may form 
the subject of a future letter. Fur the present, I must entertain 
you Avith an account of a most singular and interesting adventure, 
which I met with, in tlic course of the tour. 

It was one Sunday, as I traveled through the county of 
Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of Iiorses tied near a 
ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. 
Having frequently seen such objects before, in travehng through 
these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a 
place of rehgious worship. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duticg 
of the congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the 
preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. 
On entering, I was struck with his pret(U7i!i,turid appearance. He 
was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered 
with a white Hnen cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all 
shaking under the influence of a palsy; and a few moments ascer- 
tained to me that he was perfectly blind. 

The first emotions which touched my breast, were those of 
mingled pity and veneration. But ah! sacred God! how soon 
were all my feelings changed! The lips of Plato were never more 
worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this 
holy man! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament; 
and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had 
heard the subject handled a thousand times; I had thought it 
exhausted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods 
of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give 
the topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before 
witnessed. 



10(5 TREASURES PROM TTIE PROSE WORLD. 

As ho descended from the pnlj)it., to distribute the mystic sym- 
bols, there was a pecuhar, a. luoro ilian human sokMuuity iu his air 
and nuuiuor wliic-h made my blood run cohl aiul my whole frame 
shiver. 

Ho thou drew a ])icture of the suflferinp:s of our Saviour; his 
trial before Pilate; his ascent up Calvary; his crucilixion, and his 
death. I know the whole history; but never, until then, had I 
lieard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored! It 
was all new, and I seemed to have hoard it for the first tinu> iu 
my life. His enunciation was so deliberate, that his voice trembled 
on (>very syllable; and every lieart in tJie assembly trembled in 
unison. His peculiar phrases had that force of description that 
tlio original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before 
our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews : tho staring, fright- 
ful distortions of nuilice and rage. We saw tlie buffet; my soul 
kindUHl with a, llanie of indigniition ; and my hands were involun- 
tarily and convulsively clinched. 

r>ut when he came to touch on the patience, tlie forgiving 
meekness of our Saviour; wIumi he drew, to the life, his blessed 
eves streaming in tears to Heaven; his voice breathing to (uhI, a 
soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies — "Father, forgive 
ilu'ui, for they know not what they do" — the voice of tho preacher, 
wliich bail all almig faltered, grow fainter and fainter, until his 
utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings; he 
raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loiid and irre- 
pressible iliHxl of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole 
house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of 
the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to 
permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious 
standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy (or the 
sitiuition of tlie preacher. For I could not conceive how he would 
bo able to let his audience down from tho height to which ho had 
wouiul them without impairing tho solemnity and dignity of his 
subji>ct, or perhajis shocking thoni by the abruptness of the fall. 



TllKASIJIiKK KliOM THE i'llOHK WOKLi). 1!J7 

But — no; ilio (loHccnt wiih iih l)caiit,iliil juid aublirae an tlio clcviiijon 
had hv.vM rjtpid iuid <jiiLliiiHiii,sl,ic. 

'i'lic! first scnteiico wliicli l)r()l((! Uk; itvvful Hilcncc, wuh a (|uoia- 
i.ioii froiti llouHKOiui, "Socrak'H died like a ijliiloHophcr, biii Jcsiis 
(IliirHt, like a (jodl" 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced })y Uiis 
sliort sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the wltole man- 
ner of the man, as well as tlie ])cculiar crisis in tlio discoiirw!. 
Never before did I completely understand what Uemosthenes iin ant 
by laying such str(!ss on delivcrij. You are to bring before you Llie 
venerable figure of the preacher; Ins I)lindncss, constantly recall- 
ing to your recolb'ciion old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso- 
ciating witli his jx.'rformance the melancholy grandeur of tlu.'ir 
geniuses; you an; to imagine you hear his slow, solenni, \v<;ll 
accented ennnciiition, iuid iiis voic(! (i aCi'ectiiig, trejnbling melody; 
you fire to remember the pitcli of passion a,nd eiitliiisiasm to wiiieh 
the congregation were raised; and then, tli(! few miiniLcs of jxir- 
tentous, death-like silence which reigned thi'oiif^dioiit the house; the 
])reacher removing his white haiidkcii'ehief from his a,ged face (even 
yet wet from the recent torrent of liis tearsj, a.nd slowly str(;tching 
forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins tlie s(!ntence, "So- 
crates died like a j)hi]osoj)her" — then pausing, raising his other 
hand, pressing them both clasped together, with warirjth and 
energy to his breast, lifting his "sightless balls" to -heaven, a,jid 
pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — "but Jesus Christ 
— like a God!" If he had l)een indeed and in truth an angel of 
light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. 

"Whatever I had been able to conceive of the snl)limity of 
Massillon, or the force of iJonrdalone, ha,d fallen far short of tlie 
power which i felt from the d(;]ive]y of this simple sentence. The 
blood, wliicli just liefore had rushed in a, Inirricane upon my brain, 
a2)d, in the violence and agf)ny of my feelings had held my whole 
system in suH])ense, now ran ba,(;k into my heart, with a sensation 
which I cannot describe — a kijid of shuddering, delicious horror! 
The paroxysm of blended ])ity and indignation, to which I had becu 



198 TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

transported, subsided into the deepest self-abasement, humility and 
adoration. I had just been lacerated and dissolved by sympathy 
for our Saviour as a fellow creature; but now, with fear and trem- 
bling, I adored him as — "a God!" 

If this description gives you the impression that this incom- 
parable minister had anything of shallow, theatrical trick in his 
nuumer, it does him great injustice. I have never seen in any 
other orator, such a union of simplicity and majesty. He has not 
a gesture, an attitude or an accent, to which he docs not seem 
forced, by the sentiment which he is expressing. His mind is too 
serious, too earnest, too solicitous, and,' at the same time too dignified, 
to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentntion as a 
man can be, yet it is clear from the train, the style and substance of 
his thoughts, that he is not cnily a very polite scholar, but a man 
of extensive and profound erudition. I was ftu-cibly struck with a 
short, yet beautiful character which he drew of our learned and 
amiable countryman. Sir Robert Boyle; he spoke of him, as if 
"his noble mind had, oven before death, divested herself of all in- 
fluence from his frail tabernacle of flesh;" and called him in his 
peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, "a pure intelligence; 
the link between men and angels." 

This man has been before my imagination almost ever since. 
A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bri- 
dle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation 
from Rousseau; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in 
despair, and felt persuaded that his peculiar manner and power 
arose from an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which 
no human being could justly copy. In short, he seems to be alto- 
gether a being of a former age, or of a totally difTerent nature from 
the rest of men. As I recall, at this moment, several of his 
awfully striking attitudes, the chilling tide with which my blood 
begins to pour along my arteries reminds me of the emotions pro- 
duced by the first sight of Gray's introductory picture of his bard: 

"Oil a rock, whoso haughty brow 
FrowTis o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 



TBEASUBES FROM THK I'KOHE WOKLD. i;ji) 

Rohod ill tho Kiililo K.'irl) oP woo, 

With haKKiird nycn (hi! ixjct; Htood; 

(LooHC liiH l>(;ard iind lioary liair 

Streamed, like a meteor, to tlie troubled air) ; 

And with a i)oet'H liand and a proijhet'H Are, 

Struck tho deep BorrowH of hl« lyro." 

GnoHH my surpriSe, when, on my arrival at Richmond, and 
mentioning tho name of this man, 1 found not one pors(jii who had 
ever before ]icard of Javws \V(ul,lrll! Is it not strange, that such a 
genius as this, so accomj)]islied a scholar, so divine an orator, 
should be permitted to languish and die in obscurity, within eighty 
miles of the metropolis of Virginiii,? 



Order in Nature. 

How marvelous is tliis order I Tho stones and soil beneath our 
feet, and tJic ponderous mountains, are not ]nere confused masses 
of matter; they arc pervaded through their innermost constitution 
by tho harmony of )iural)ors. The elements of the wood we burn 
arc associated in fixed matlicmatical ratios. In the violence of com- 
bustion, the bond that held them together is destroyed; they break 
away and rush into new combinations, but they cannot escape tlie 
law of numerical destiny. TJie burning candle gradually wastes 
away before us, dissolves in air, and passes Ijcyond the reacli of 
sight; but in that invisible region, forces are playing iunong its un- 
seen particles with the same exactitude and harnumy as among 
tliose whicli rule tho constellations. And so is it with all chemical 
mutations. In the gradual growth of living structures, in the diges- 
tion of food, and in the slow decay of organic matter, no less than 
in its quick combustion, the tninsi)osition of elements takes place 
in rigorous accordance with the law of quantitative proportion. 



•J(H) 'riJKASl'UKS VUOM IIIK riiDSH \V0K1,1>. 



ED"WARD EVERETT. 



1^ l>\VAlvl> KVMKI'Vr'P Nvjis bom in l^m-hosUn-. l\rugis.. April 
^ 1 I. 17i>l. nml hodit^l in nostiui. Jmu. 1;». 1S(55. " At llio 
H^'o ot" IliirttHMi lio (MiliM'tni llarvnrd (\)11(\'^(\ Miui lio WMs 
f;'nuluiilo(l with liio lii};host honors." \\v nlso slntlird divin- 
'\i\ unci sdllod ill Boston us pastor of Hrnttlo Stivoi (.'hiirch. 
His sidudtirlv disooursos titimctod j^roiit pnhlio iitlontion. 
IK' \V!is iippoinlt^l p)ot'('ss»>r td" (iroidi liliM;itui»' mI Cainhridj^o 
in ISII. ••Ho spoid tonr yoMrs in Mnropo. visilins^tho prin- 
ciptil cilios ;>nd sojits of U\'»n\in!;". and oxtondinji: his ro- 
st\Mrciu's into !i wido ranjro of suhji^'ts. 0\\ his return, ho 
gavo a hriUiunl sorios of coUoge loiduros. and, hosid»\ fon- 
lunnlnctod tho "North Aniorican Koviow." From his h^dnri^ tio- 
livorod in lS'24hofor»^ tho /Vu' Hctii /v(j/'/i(( NocjVA// of Harvard. 
\vo havo takon tho artitdo ontitlod ]\'(lroiit(- to /.d i\iti<ttf. 
Ih^sorvinl in (.\Mi«;n^ss for ton yoars from IS'Jl. thon sorvod 
liis Stato as govornor t\n' four tonus. In ISll, Trt'sidtMd 
Harrison ai>pt>intinl liitu iniuistor to l'in,';hind. Wo roturnod 
to tho Unitod Statos in lSir>, and was niailo {>rosidont of 
Harvaid roUo!\(^ Vpon tho doath of l\'iniol Wohslt>r. Tn^si- 
diMit I'llhuor*' appiMutod Mvorott Soorotary of Stato. In IS.'>;>, 
ho was ohoson I'nitod Statos siMialor. hut. at tho (doso of 
onc> yoar. ho rosignod. l''or tho {uu-poso oi jun'ohasiug Minn\t 
Yornim. ho visittnl iho prinoipal oitios of tlio I'nittnl Statos. 
and »hdiv»M-(Hl his Ku'turo upon Washiujiton. In this way lio 
raisoil nioro than lifty tliousand doUars. 

"It is ovidiMit from this hriof sunuuary that '^h■. l-'vorott 
was a man of raro [unvors and raror oultnro. Wo might 



/ 











''"■"'»!'.'^"«i32' 



^AlJ.■i■-^ 



KT)WAl(l) KVK.KKTT, 



'nU'lASIJUMH h'ltOM 'I'lIK I'ltOHI'l WOItlil). 201 

truly Hay, ' What (;oal(l I havo dono unto my vineyard 
tliat I lijivo not (loiio unto it'/' I<Vorn In'H infarifty lio 
HGomod to lijivo ])(!(!»! iriarli(!(l out for a, Hcliola.r, and through 
liiH lifo lio (iujoyod (ixooptiorial advituta^cH in accjiiiring 
laiowh;(l^^(}, and tlio h(!Ht uho of hi.s ua,turii,lly hrilliant faoul- 
tioH. IHh orations woro compo8(i<l for widely (hCforing ooca- 
HiouH, hut in oa(di oaHo tho troatmont in ho maHtorly that one 
would think tho Buhjoct then in hajid had hcon tlio npocial 
Htudy of hiH lifo. Jiut hin cam did not coaHO with tho j)rop- 
a,raiion ; hin voico, goHiuroK, a,ii<l (;ad<!Mr;oH wons alwayn in 
liannouy with Iu'h tfiotru!, ho tha,t Ikj waH al)H(duto nia,Ht(!r of 
liin audi(!nf;(!. It in Holdoui that tiuj liiorary arnialiHt liaH to 
rooord a naroor in whicdi tho pnia/dior a,nd (!HHa,yist iH dovol- 
opnd hy natural growth into tlio HtatoHinan and diploniatint, 
whilo hiH H(diolaHtic taHtoH and habitn grow in paralhd linoH, 
and the man at throoHoore jh an opitomo of tlio knowledge 
and an exemplar of th(! (ilofjuonco of hin generation. 

*• Everett'n works a.ro aJwuyn intenjHting to tho reader. 
Open a volume at random, and tho thought at once ongagoH 
attention. It \h true we <lo not lind pasHagOH, like thoHO in 
WehHfcer'B npeechoH, whicfi come upon ati like thunder HtrokoH ; 
but, on tlie other liand, there are fewer arid HpacoH, Web- 
Hter iH often uninteroHting, if not dull, for pagen together. 
Everett, if he ncsver a-HtonisheH, never faj'ln to delight. 

"Mr. I'jverett'n worl<H ar(! cornpriHCid in four voIh. 8 vo. 
He edited alno tho works of WcbHter, and wrote an introduc- 
tory biography." 



202 TEEASUBES EllOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



"Welcome to La Fayette. 

Moantime the years nro rapidly passinp; away, and gathering 
iiu}iovtanoo in thoir course. With the ]>resent year will be coni- 
pU>(cHl (he half century l'n>ni that most important era in human 
history, tlie commencement oi our Revolutionary War. The jubilee 
(if our national existence is at hand. The space of time that has 
elapsed fn>m that momentous date, has laid down in the dust, which 
(he blood of many of them had already hallowed, most of the great 
nuMi to Avhom, under Providence, Ave oavo our national existence and 
privileges. A few still survive among us, to reap the rich fruits of 
their labors and sufferings; and one has yielded himself to the 
miited voice of a people, and returned in his age to receive the 
gratitude of the nation to whom ho devoted his youth. It is 
rec(n-ded on the pages of American history, that when this friend 
of our country applied to our commissioners at Paris, in 177(5, for 
a passage to America, they were obliged to answer him (so low and 
abject was then our dear native land), that they possessed not the 
means nor the credit suthcient for providing a single vessel, in all 
the ports of France. "Then," exclaimed the youthful hero, "I will 
])rovide my own;" and it is a literal fact, that when aU America 
was too ptnn' to o(h>r him so much as a passage to our shores, he 
li^ft, in iiis (eudor youth, the bosom of home, of happiness, of 
wealth, of rank, (o plnn;:e in (lie dust and blood of our inaus- 
]iicious struggle. 

Welcome, Friend of our Fathers, to our shores! Happy are 
our eyes that behold those venerable features. Enjoy a trimnph 
such as never conquenn" or monarch enjoyed — tJie assurance that 
throughout America there is not a bosom Avhich does not beat with 
ji\V ivnd gratitude at (he sound of your name. You have already 
nu^t and saluted, or will soon meet tlio few that remain of the ar- 
dent patriots, prudent counselors, and brave warriors, with wlunu 
you were associated in achieving our liberty. But you have looked 



TEEASURES FROM THE PKOSE WOULD. 203 

around in vain for the faces of many who would have lived years 
of pleasure on a day like this, witli their old companion in ai-ms 
and l)rother in peril. Lincoln, and Greene, and Knox, and Ham- 
ilton are gone; the heroes of Saratoga and Yorktown have fallen 
before the only foe they could not meet. Above all, the first of 
heroes and of men, the friend of your youth, tlic; more than friend 
of his country, rests in the bosom of the soil he redeemed. On 
the banks of his Potomac he li(!S in glory and peace. You will 
revisit the hoHpital)le shades of Mount Vernon, but him whom you 
venerated as we did, you will not meet at its door. His voice of 
consolation, which reached you in the Austrian dungeons, cannot 
now break its silence, to bid you welcome to his own roof. But 
the grateful children of America will bid you welcome in his name. 
Welcome, thrice welcome, to our shores; and whithersoever 
throughout the limits of the continent your course shall take you, 
tlio ear that hears you shall bless you, the eye that sees you shall 
bear witness to you, and every tongue exclaim, witii heartfelt joy, 
Welcome, Welcome, Lafayette I 



Penn's Advice to His Children, 

Next, betake yourself to some honest, industrious course of life, 
and that not of sordid covctousness, Ijut for example, and to avoid 
idleness. And if you change your condition and marry, choose 
with the knowledge and consent of your mother, if living, or of 
guardians, or of those that have the charge of you. Mind neither 
beauty nor riches, but the fear of the Lord, and a sweet and amiable 
disposition, such as you can love above all this world, and that may 
make your hal)itations pleasant and desirable to you. 

And being married, be tender, affectionate, patient and meek. 
Live in the fear of the Lord, and He will bless you and your off- 
spring. Be sure to live within compass; borrow not, neither be 



1>01 'I'KF.ASl'KKS I'KOM 'I'llK PKOSK WOKl.P. 

bohoKloii to :uiy. Kuiii not yiuirsc^lt" l>y kiiulness to others; for that 
oxcotuls tho lino boiuls ot" t"ii<Mulshi|). uoitliov will i» tiuo truMul i>x- 
poot it. iSiUiiU ni;»tt(M8 I IuhhI in>t. 

Ijot Your imhistry iiiul jiarsiuiony !;:o no tiirtlior than t\ir a sutVi- 
I'ii iiov for lifo. ami to mako a provision for your I'hiKlron, ami that 
in uiodtM-ataou, if tho Lord givos you any. I ohan^^ you liolp tho 
poor !uul nooily; lot tho ln>nl haYO a. Yoluntary sharo of your in- 
oonu' (yr tho {^[ooil of tho iH>or, both in our sooioty a>ul otliors— for 
wo aro all his otvaturos romonihoring that "ho tliat jrivoth to tlie 

JHHM- Kanloth to tlu> lilM'vl." 

Know woll ymir inooniinus, anil your oiits^innirs may ho hottor 
rojTulatoil. l.oYo not nionoy ntM- tlu^ world; uso thorn only, and thoy 
will sorvo you; hut if yiMi lovo thom, you sorvo thom, whioh will 
dohaso your spirits as woll as otTond tho Lord. Tity tho ilistrossod, 
ami hold out a hand of holn to thom; it may ho your oaso. ami as 
yo\i ntt^to to othors. (,iod will moto to ycMi a;;:ain. Ho humhlo .and 
j:;ontlo in your oonvors.ition. o{ fow wouls, I ohargo you; hut al- 
ways portinotit >Yhon you spo.ak, hoarins* out hofvuv you attompt to 
answor. and thou spoakins* as if you would porsuado, ni^t imposo. 
AtTriMit nono, uoithtM* rovonjTO tho .atTnuits that aro dono t<>you: hut 
fvUijivo. ai\d you shall ho forgivon o( your lloavonly Fatlior. 

In uuikiug frionds, oonsidor woll first; and whon yon au> iixod, 
ho truo, not waYoriujr by ivports, mn* dosortini:: in aftliotion. for that 
booomos not good and Yirtuous. Watoh against angor ; noitlior spoak 
nor aot in it; for, liko drunkoinioss, it luakos a man a boast, and 
throws ptH^plo into dosporato iuoonvonionoos. Avoid tlattoiws, for 
thoy aro thiovos in disgniso: ihoir praivso is costly, dosiguing to got 
by thoso thoy bospoak; thoy aro tho wi>rst of oroatmvs; thoy lio to 
tlaftor a«ul tlattor to ohoat; and whioli is Avorso. if you bolioYo thom. 
you ohoat yo\irst^lvos most datigtnxmsly. But tho virtuous, though 
poor, lovo, ohorish, and profor. Komonibor P.avid. who, asking tho 
Tionl: "Who sh.all abiilo in thy tahortiaolo? who shall dwoll in thy 
holy hiir,'" answors: "Ho that walkotli npi'ightJy, and workoth right- 
oousnoss. and spoakoth tho truth in his hoart; in whoso oyos a vilo 
porson is ooutouuiod, but ho honoivtJi thom that foar tho Loixl." 



TRKAHJJIIKM I'KOM 'I'lIM I'ltOMI'l \VOI(l,|). 20^ 

Noxl,, my c-liildrfiii, Ix: l,(!iii|)('f;i(,(! in nil Uiiii;^n: in .yonr fjid,, for 
iliiil, in piiynic; hy pnivcinUdii ; \i, I((!(!)»h, ijity, il, iMiikcii iKJopIc liciilUiy, 
luid i\i('.\v i/,<'Aici->dUn\ Hound. TliiH in cxciiiHiv*! of Uio npiriliin,] imI • 
\iuii,;\,'/r, \{, |iiin;ni. I'.oiiJiio phun in your iippii.rcl ; Id'cp onl, l-liiiJ.liii:!, 
which rcif'nH Loo iinich (tvcf noni<;; l<;l. your virUit:n Ixi your ornii, 
iwi'.ui.H, ronMiirihnriii;^ lihs in nioro (Juui food, ii,nd Uic hody iJnui 
rairrKiiil.. IjcI, your riirnilino he. Miniphi iind <'h('!ip. Avoid prido, 
aviiTJc-o, luid luxury. Uoiid iriy "No (JroHH, No drown." 'j'hirc in 
inHl.nic-l.ioii. Mnk*; your <5oiiv(irHii,l,ion wiUi i,h<! nio;il, cnnmnl, lor 
WiMdoin luid pi<il.y, nnd iihiin iiJI wii'kcil men ii,:i you liopo for l,li(! 
hloHHin;.^ of Clod iind Uk! cond'orl, of your f;i(,hii';i livin;^ iind dyin{,^ 
priLycrH. I»<) nurc you iipc;iJ( no (^vil of iuiy, no, nol, of Uk; nicniifHlr, 
nnndi Ic.hh of your HUpi-riorH, lut nni;Mnl,r;il<c!i, |oi;u'diiuiM, l,iil,orH, 
U:iu:]ii'rn luid cldcrn in (JhrinL 

|{(! no hiiHy hodicH; meddle nol, wilJi oUicr folKit' m;ii.feni, hul, 
wlutn ill conHciiMico luid (hd.y pvmHc.d; for il, prociiroii Lrouhln, and 
in ill miuuKin-i, luid vory iinmuindy U> wino m<n. In your fii,mili(!H 
remcmlxti' A liriiJinni, Moiicn aiid .loithini,, l,h<ir inl,i;M'i(,y fo iJic iiord, 
iMid do n,H you Idivo Ui(!m for your oxiunplo. IjcI, Uio {'cur and H(;r- 
vi<!(! of l,h<! livin;^ Hod ho (!nc.oiira;^M;d in yonr houiioH, and ilni,i |)lain- 
ncHH, Hohriciy and modfrii.fion in ;iJI l.hinj^n, an h(!;;oni(:(Ji (Itui'H 
p(!oplc; and an I !idvino yon, my hrlovcd cJiildnJii, do you conniKl 
yourH, if (\i)(\ hIiouM (.^ivo you nny. Y<ia, I. coumhcI iiiid conmiiind 
l.hcni iin my poHioriiy, l-li;iJ, fhcy lov<' n.nd Hcrvo Uu) iiord flod with 
)ui uj)fii.dii, hcjirl,, Uial/ ho may hlonn you juid yourH from j^cnoniJ.ion 
to f^ojioniiion. 

And an for you, who ji.ro likely l,o ho corMionuid in Uu; ^'ovorn- 
mcnl, of iN'OiiHylvfuiiii, Ji,nd my pari, of MaHl/ .U:\w.y, (!Hp(;c,iii,lly Uio 
lifHl,, I do chiiii/r. you hcforo l,h(! liord Ciod ;i,nd hinholy luij^ht, Uiiil, 
you ho lowly, dili;N!iil,, and l,ondor, foarinjj (tod, loving; Uio pooph;, 
and hiiUn;^ oovoIouhiiokh, IjoI, junfico liavo i(,H impa,rl,ial oourHC, 
and \,\[c l;i,w ft'oi; paHHUf^fs. 'rhou;di l,o your Io;!M, proi.cci, no man 
a^^aimd, if; for you iiro noL ahov(! Uio Jaw, huL flio Jaw ah(;v<! you. 
liivo, UiontfoH!, Ui(! livoH yoiin)oIv(!H, you would liavo l,h(! pcopio livo, 
!U)d Unit you h;ivo ri.'dil, ii.nd holdno,:ii l,o puniiili Ui(; IranHf^rOHHOr. 



200 TREASURES FROM THE THOSE WORLD. 

Keep upou the square, for God sees you ; therefore, do your duty, 
and be sure you see with your own eyes, and hear with your own 
ears. Entertain no hirchers, cherish no informers for gain or re- 
venge, use no tricks, fly to no devices to support or cover in- 
justice; but let your hearts be upright before the Lord, trusting 
in him above the contrivances of men, and none shall be able to 
hurt or supplant. 



Christianity. 

Taken from a speech of Charles Phillips, the Irish orator, delivered at Cheltenham 
England, oil the 7th of October, 1810, at the fourth anniversary of the Gloucester 
Missionary Society. 

When I consider the source from whence Cliristianity springs 
— the humility of its origin — the poverty of its disciples — the mira- 
cles of its creation — the mighty sway it has acquired not only over 
the civilized world, but which your missions are hourly extending 
over lawless, mindless, and imbruted regions — I own the awful 
presence of the Godhead — nothing less than a Divinity could have 
done it! The powers, the prejudices, the superstitions of the earth 
were all in arms against it; it had nor sword nor sceptre — its foun- 
der Avas in rags — its apostles were lowly fishermen — its inspired 
prophets, lowly and uneducated — its cradle was a manger — its home 
a dungeon — its earthly diadem a crown of thorns ! And yet, forth 
it wont — that lowly, humble, persecuted spirit — and the idols of the 
heathen fell; and the thrones of tlie mighty trembled; and pagan- 
ism saw her peasants and her piinces kneel down and worship the 
unarmed Conqueror! If this be not the work of the Divinity, then 
I yield to the reptile ambition of the atlieist. I see no God above 
— I see no government below, and I yield my consciousness of an 
immortal soul to his boasted fraternity with the worm that perishes! 
But, sir, even when I thus concede to him the divine origin of our 
Christian faith, I arrest him upon worldly principles — I desire liim 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 207 

to produce, from all the wisdom of the earth, so pure a system of 
practical morality — a code of ethics more sublime in its conception — 
more simple in its means — more happy and more powerful in its 
operation; and, if he cannot do so, I then say to him, Oh! in the 
name of your own darling policy filch not its guide from youth, its 
sliield from manhood, and its crutch from age! Though the light 
1 follow may lead me astray, still I think it is Hght from Heaven ! 
The good, and great,' and wise, are my comj)anions — my delightful 
hope is harmless, if not holy; and wake me not to a disappointment, 
which in your tomb of annihilatvm, I shall not taste hereafter! 

The following extract we take from Mr. Phillip's speech delivered at the annual 
meeting of the British and Foreign Auxiliary Society, London. 

My Lord, I wiU abide by the precepts, admire the beauty,' 
revere the mysteries, and as far as in me lies, practice the man- 
dates of this sacred volume; and should the ridicule of eai-th, and 
the blasphemy of hell assail me, I shall console myself by the con- 
templation of those blessed spirits, who, in the same holy cause, 
have toiled, and shone, and sufl'ered. In the " goodly fellowship of 
the saints" — in the " noble army of the martyrs" — in the society of 
the great, and good, and wise of every nation, if my sinfulness be 
not cleansed, and my darkness illuminated, at least my pretension- 
less submission may be excused. If I err with the luminaries I 
have chosen for my guides, I confess myself captivated by the love- 
liness of their aberrations. If they err it is in an heavenly region ; 
if they wander, it is in fields of light; if they aspire, it is at all 
events a glorious daring; and rather than sink with infidelity into 
the dust, I am content to cheat myself with their vision of eternity. 
It may, indeed, be nothing but delusion, but then I err with the 
disciples of philosophy and of virtue — with men who have drank 
deep at the fountain of human knowledge, but who dissolved not 
the pearl of their salvation in the draught. I err with Bacon, the 
great Bacon, the great confidant of nature, fraught with all the 
learning of the past, and almost prescient of the future ; yet too wise 
not to know his weakness, and too philosophic not to feel his igno- 



208 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

rauco. I err with Milton, rising on an angel's wings to heaven, 
!uul like the bird of morn, soaring out of light, amid the music of 
his grateful piety. I err with Locke, whose pure philosophy only 
taught him to adore its source, whose warm love of genuine liberty 
was never chilled into reboUion with its author. I err with Newton, 
whose star-like spirit shooting athwart the darkness of the sphere, 
too soon to re- ascend to the home of his nativity. With men like 
tliese, my lord, I sluill remain in error. * * * 

Holding opinions such as these, I should consider myself cul- 
pable, if, at such a crisis, I did not declare them. A lover of my 
country, I yet draw a line between patriotism and rebellion. A 
warm friend of liberty of conscience, I will not confound toleration 
with infidelity. With all its ambiguity, I shah die in the doctrines 
of the Christian faith; and, with all its errors, I am contented to 
live under the safeguards of the British Constitution. 



Eleonora. 



I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of 
passion. Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet 
settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence — whether 
much that is glorioiis — whether all tliat is profound — does not spring 
from disease of thought, from moodt of mind exalted at the expense 
of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of 
many things which escape those who dream only by night. In 
their gray visions tliey obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in 
waking, to lind that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. 
In snatches, thoy loarn something of the A\'isdom which is of good, 
and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They penetrate, 
however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the "light 
ineffable;" and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, 
agri'ssi sunt mare trnrhranini quid in i-o csset cvploraturi. We will 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 200 

say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two dis- 
tinct conditions of my mental existence — the condition of a lucid 
reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events 
forming the first epoch of my life — and a condition of shadow and 
doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what 
constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I 
shall tell of the earlier period, believe ; and to what I may relate of 
the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it 
altogether; or if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the 
(Edipus. 

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly 
and distinctly these remembrances, was the s(jle daughter of the 
only sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name 
of my cousin. We had always dwelled together, l)eneath a tropical 
sun, in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. No unguided foot- 
step ever came upon that vale ; for it lay far away up among a 
range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out 
the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its 
vicinity; and to reach our happy home, there was need of putting 
back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and 
of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. 
Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world 
without the valley, — I, and my cousin, and her mother. 

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end 
of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, 
brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily 
about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shad- 
owy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. 
We called it the "River of Silence;" for there seemed to be a lui.sli- 
ing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so 
gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved 
to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a 
motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously 
forever. 

The margin of the river, iind of tiie many dazzling rivulets 

14 



210 TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

that glided tlirougli devious ways into its channel, as well as the 
spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths 
of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles attlie bottom, — 
these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the 
river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft 
green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla perfumed, but 
so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white 
daisy, the puii)le violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceed- 
ing beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the 
glory of God. 

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wilder- 
nesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall, slender 
stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light 
that peered at noon-day into the center of the valley. Their bark 
was speckled Avith the vivid alternate splendor of ebony and silver, 
and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so, that 
but for the briUiant green of the huge leaves that spread from their 
summits in long, tremulous lines, dalljdng with the zephyrs, one 
might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing homage to 
their sovereign, the sun. 

Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I 
with Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one 
•evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the 
fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, be- 
neath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the waters of 
the Kiver of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words 
during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the 
morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the god Eros 
from that jvave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us 
the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for 
centuries distinguished our race came thronging with the fancies 
for which they had equally noted and together breathed a delirious 
bhss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change fell 
upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out 
upon the trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 211 

of the green carpet deepened; and when, one ]jy one, the white 
daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them ten by ten 
of the ruby-red asphodel, and hfe arose in our paths ; for the tall 
flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his 
scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the 
river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by httle, a murmur 
that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that 
of the harp of tEoIus — sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. 
And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in 
the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson 
and gold, and setthng in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower 
and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, 
turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, 
as if forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory. 

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim ; but she 
was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among 
the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated 
her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we 
walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and dis- 
coursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place therein. 

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last, sad 
change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only 
upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, 
as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz the same images are found 
occurring, again and again, in every impressive variation of phrase. 

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom — 
that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in lovehness 
ojily to die; but the terrors of the grave, to her, lay solely in a con- 
sideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the 
banks of the Eiver of Silence. She grieved to think that, having 
entombed her in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, I would 
quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was 
so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and every-day 
world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet 
of Eleonora, and offered up a vow to herself and to Heaven, that 



212 TREASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

I woiild never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth — 
that I would in no maimer prove recreant to her dear memory, or 
to the memory of the devout affection with which she blessed me. 
And I called the Mighty Kuler of the Universe to witness the pious 
solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and 
of her, a saint in Helusion, should 1 prove traitorous to that prom- 
ise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not 
permit me to make a record of it here. And the bright eyes of 
Eleonora grew brighter at my words ; and she sighed as if a deadly 
burthen had been taken from her breast, and she trembled and very 
bitterly wept; but she made accej)tance of the vow, (for what was she 
but a child?) and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And 
she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, be- 
cause of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit, she would 
watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were per- 
mitted her, return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, 
if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Para- 
dise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her 
presence ; sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filhng the air 
which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. 
And, with these words upon her Ups, she yielded up her innocent 
life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own. 

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in 
Time's path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with 
the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over 
my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let 
me on. Years dragged themselves along heavily and still I dwelled 
^\ithin the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second change 
had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank into 
the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the 
green carpet faded, and one by one ruby-red asphodels withered 
away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, 
eye-hke violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered 
■with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the tall flamingo 
flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly 



TREASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 213 

from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that 
had arrived m his company. And the golden and sHver fish 
swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain, 
and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling mel- 
ody that had been softer than the wind-liaqD of ^olus, and 
more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by 
httle away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream 
returned at length utterly into the solemnity of its original silence. 
And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning 
the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the 
regions of Hesper, and took away aU its manifold golden and gor- 
geous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. 

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard 
the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams 
of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at 
lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed 
my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct 
murmurs fiUed often the night air; and once-oh, but once only! 
I was awakened from a slumber, hke the slumber of death, by the 
pressing of spiritual lips upon my own. 

But the void within my heart refused, even then, to be filled. 
I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At 
length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and 
I left it forever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the 
world. 

***** **** 

I found myself within a strange city, where aU things might 
have served to blot from recoUection the sweet dreams I had 
dreamed so long in the VaUey of the Many Colored Grass. The 
pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of 
arms, and the radiant lovehness of woman, bewildered and intoxi- 
cated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, 
and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me 
m the silent hours of the night. Suddenly, these manifestations 
ceased; and the world grew dark before mine eyes; and I stood 



214 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed — at the terrible 
temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far 
distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, 
a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once 
— at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the 
most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, in- 
deed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in compari- 
son with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit-hfting ecstacy 
of adoration Avith which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the 
feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? Oh, bright was the seraph 
Ermengarde ! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. 
Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into 
the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them — and of 
her I wedded ; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked ; and its bitter- 
ness was not visited upon me. And once — but once again in the 
silence of the night, there came through my lattice the soft sighs 
which had forsaken me ; and they modeled themselves into famil- 
iar and sweet voice, saying: 

" Sleep in peace ! — for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, 
and in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou 
art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in 
Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora." 




TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 21^ 



English Language. 

The language which, at the very beginning of its full organ- 
ization, could produce the hnked sweetness of Sidney and the 
"mighty hne" of Marlowe, the voluptuous beauty of Spenser and 
the oceanic melody of Shakespere, and which, at a riper age, could 
show itself an adequate instrument for the organ-like harmonies 
of Milton and the matchless symphonies of Sir Thomas Browne; 
which could give full and fit expression to the fiery energy of Dryden 
and the epigrammatic point of Pope, to the forest-like gloom of Young 
and the passionate outpourings of Burns; which sustained and sup- 
ported the tremulous elegance and husbanded strength of Campbell, 
the broad-winged sweep of Coleridge, the deep sentiment and all- 
embracing humanities of Wordsworth and the gorgeous emblazonry 
of Moore; and which to-day, in the plenitude of its poAvers, responds 
to every call of Tennyson, Euskin, Nev/man, and Froude, — is 
surely equal to the demands of any genius that may yet arise to tax 
its powers. Spoken in the time of Elizabeth by a million fewer 
persons than to-day speak it in London alone, it now girdles the 
earth with its electric chain of communication, and voices the 
thoughts of a hundred million of souls. It has crossed the peaks 
of the Rocky Mountains, and has invaded South America and the 
Sandwich Islands; it is advancing with giant strides through Africa 
and New Zealand, and on the scorching plains of India; it is pen- 
etrating the wild waste of Australia, making inroads upon China 
and Japan, and bids fair to become the dominant language of the 
civilized world. Let us jealously guard its purity, maintain its 
ancient idioms, and develop its inexhaustible resources, that it may 
he even more worthy than it now is to be the mother tongue, not 
only of the two great brother nations whose precious legacy it is, 
but of the whole family of man. 



216 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



OLIVER AATENDELL HOLMES. 



OLIVEE WENDELL HOLMES was born at Cambridge, 
Mass., August 29, 1809, and at this time (1S82) he occu- 
pies the chair of Anatomy and Physiology in Harvard Uni- 
versity. At the age of twenty. Holmes graduated at Har- 
vard and commenced the stud}' of law. Law was soon 
abandoned for medicine. He studied in Europe, and in 1836 
graduated at Cambridge as Doctor of Medicine. In 1838 he 
became professor of Anatomy and Physiology in Dartmouth 
College, and in 1847 accepted the same position at Harvard. 

The following are among his literary works : Poetry, a 
Metrical Essay; Terpsichore,- Urania; Astrcea. The above 
poems were delivered before college and literary societies. 
He is also author of three excellent works, entitled : Autocrat 
of the Breakfast Table; The Professor at the Breakfast Table, 
and The Poet at the Breakfast Table. Three other well known 
w^orks of his are Elsie Venner, published in 1861 ; The Guar- 
dian Angel, in 1868 ; Mechanism in Thought and Morals, in 
1872. 

Besides his excellent literary works already noted, he is 
author of valuable medical works. 

Although not a literary man by profession, yet he has 
Avritten extensively, and has gained a high position in the 
literary world. His composition is always smooth and grace- 
ful, and many of his sayings are among the finest specimens 
of American humor. 

Holmes combines science and philosophy, wit and hu- 




1 /'-fk 4^'/ 




OrJVEU WENDEIiT- nOEMKS. 



TREASURES FROM 'IlfE PJtOSE WOJiJ.D. 



217 



mor, in pouiry and proHC, in a moet happy and brilliant 
manner. His poemH, written for class rieunions and other 
Hpecial oecaHions, are so happy that they make Holmes " the 
fountain of perpetual youth" in American literature. 




218 TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. 

[The "Atlantic" obeys the moon, and its luniversary has come 
round again. I have gathered iip some hasty notes of my remarks 
made since the last high tides, which I respectfully submit. Please 
to remember this is talk] just as easy and just as formal as I choose 
to make it.] 

I never saw an author in my hfe — saving, perhaps, one — tliat 
did not purr as .ludibly as a full grown domestic cat, on having his 
fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand. 

But let me give you a caution. Be very careful how yoii tell 
an author he is droll. Ten to one he will hate you; and if he 
does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. 
Say you cried over his romance or his verses, and he will love you 
and send you a copy. You can laugh over that as much as you 
hke — in private. 

Wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny? 
Why, there are ob\dous reasons, and deep philosophical ones. The 
clown knows very well that the women are not in love ■\^^th liim, 
but with Hamlet, the fellow in black cloak arid plumed hat. Pas- 
sion never laughs. The wit knows that his place is at the tail of 
a jn-ocession. 

If you want the deep, underljang reason, I must take more 
time to tell it. There is a perfect consciousness in every form of 
wit— using that term in its general sense — that its essence consists 
in a partial and incomplete ^ne^y of whatever it touches. It thro^\'>5 
a single rajy, separated from the rest — red, yellow, blue, or any 
intermediate shade, — upon an object; never white light; that is the 
provhice of wisdom. We get beautiful effects from wit, — aU the 
prismatic colors, t— but never the object as it is in fair daylight. A 
pun, which is a kind of wit, is a different and much shalloAver trick 
in mental optics, throwing the .^hadoirs of two objects so that one 
overlies the other. Poetry uses the rainbow tints for special effects, 



TREASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WOULD. 219 

but always keeps its essential object in the purest white light of 
truth. Will you allow me to pursue this subject a Httle further? 

[They didn't allow me at that time, for somebody happened to 
scrape the floor with his chair just then; which accidental sound, 
as all must have noticed, has the instantaneous effect that the cut- 
ting of the yellow hair by Iris had upon inflexible Dido. It broke 
the charm, and that breakfast was over]. 

Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say 
disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer 
you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact 
and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, which are 
rare, leave your friend to leani unpleasant truths from his enemies; 
they are ready enough to tell them. Good breeding never forgets 
amour propre is universal. When you read the story of the Arch- 
bishop and Gil Bias, you may laugh, if you wiU, at the poor old 
man's delusion; but don't forget that the youth was the greater 
fool of the two, and that his master served such a booby rightly in 
turning him out of doors. 

You need not get up a rebellion against what I say, if you find 
everything in my sayings is not exactly new. You can't possibly 
mistake a man who means to be honest, for a literary pickpocket. 
I once read an introductory lecture that looked to me too learned 
for its latitude. On examination, I found aU its eruchtion was 
taken ready made from D'Israeh. If I had been ill-natured, I 
should have shown up the httle great man, who had once belabored 
me in his feeble way. But one can generally tell these wholesale 
thieves easily enough, and they are not worth the trouble of put- 
ting them in the pillory. I doubt the entire novelty of my remarks 
just made on teUing unpleasant truths, yet I am not conscious of 
any larceny. 

Neither make too much of flaws and occasional over statements. 
Some persons seem to think that absolute truth, in tlie form of 
rigidly stated propositions, is all that conversation admits. This 
is precisely as if a musician should insist on having nothing but 
perfect chords and simple melodies, — no diminished fifths, no flat 



0,-20 TREASUPiES FROM THE rUOSE "WORLD. 

sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. Now it is fair to say, 
tliat, just as music must have nil these, so conversation must have 
its partial truths, its embellishod truths, its exaggerated truths. 
It is in its higher forms an artistic product, and admits the deal 
clement as much as pictures or statues. One man who is a little 
too hteral can spoil the talk of a whole table full of men of esprit. 
"Yes," you say, "but who wants to hear fanciful people's nonsense? 
Put tlie facts to it, and then see whore it is!" Certainly, if a man 
is too fond of paradox, — if he is flighty and empty, — if, instead of 
striking tliose flfths and sevenths, those harmonious discords, often 
so much bettor than the twinned octaves, in the music of thought, 
if, instead of striking these, he jangles the chords, stick a fact into 
him like a stiletto. But remember that talking is one of the flne 
arts, — the noblest, the most important, and the most difficult, — 
and that its fluent harmonies may be spoiled by the intrusion of a 
single harsh note. Therefore conversation which is suggestive 
rather than argumentative, which lets out the most of each talker's 
results of thoughts, is commonly the plcasantest and the most 
profitable. It is not easy, at the best, for two persons talking to- 
gether to make the most of each other's thoughts, there are so 
many of them. 

[The company looked as if they wanted an explanation] . 

When John and Thomas, for instance, are talking together, it 
is natural enough that among tlie six there should be more or less 
confusion and misapprehension. 

[Our landlady turned pale ; no doubt she thought there was a 
screw loose in my intellect, — and that involved the probable loss 
of a boarder. A severe looking person, who wears a Spanish cloalc 
and a sad cheek, fluted by the passions of the melodrama, whom I 
understand to be the professional ruffian of tlie neighboring thea- 
ter, alluded, with a certain lifting of the brow, drawing down the 
corners of the mouth, and somewhat rasping voce di petto, to Fal- 
stalT's nine men in buckram. Everybody looked up ; I beheve the 
old gentleman opposite was afraid I should seize tlie carving-knife; 
at any rate, he shd it to one side, as it were carelessly.] 



TEEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 221 

I think, I said, I can make it plain to iiciijaniin Franklin here, 
that there are at least six personalities distinctly to be recognized as 
taking part in that dialogue between John and Thomas. 

") 1. The real John; known only to his Maker. 
2. John's ideal John; never the real one, and 



Three Johns. 



often very unlike him. 
8. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, 
nor John's John, but often very unlike either. 

) 1. The real Thomas. 
Three Thomases. I 2. Thomas's ideal Thomas. 
) 3. John's ideal Thomas. 

Only one of the three Johns is taxed; only one can 1)6 weighed 
on a platform balance; l)ut the otluu- two are just as important in 
the conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull, and 
ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers liave not conferred on men 
the seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly con- 
ceives himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks 
from the point of view of this ideal. Thomas, again, believes him 
to be an artful rogue, we will say; therefore he is, so far as Thom- 
as's attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, 
though really simple and stupid. The same conditions apply to 
the tlirce Thomases. It follows, that, until a man can be found 
who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or who sees himself 
as others see him, there must be at least six persons engaged in 
every dialogue between two. Of tliese, the least importa,nt, phil- 
osophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person. 
No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of 
them talking and listening all at the same time. 

[A very unphilosophical ai)plication of the above remarks was 
made by a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits 
near me at the table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegeta- 
ble, little known to boarding-houses, was on its way to me via this 
unlettered Johannes. He appropriated the three that remained in 
the basket, remarking that there was just one piece for him. I 
convinced liim that his practical inference was hasty and illogioj,], 
but in the meantime he had eaten the peaches.] 



222 TEEASUUES FROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

The opinions of relatives as to a mau's powers are very com- 
monly of little value; not merely because they sometimes overrate 
their own flesh and blood, as some may suppose; on the contrary, 
they are quite as hkely to underrate those whom they have grown 
into the habit of considering like themselves. The advent of 
genius is like what florists style the breakimj of a seedling tulip in- 
to what we may call high-caste colors, — ten thousand dingy flowers, 
then one with the divine streak; or, if you prefer it, hke the com- 
ing up in old Jacob's garden of that most gentlemanly httle fruit, 
the seek el pear, which I have sometimes seen in shop windows. It 
is a surprise, — there is nothing to account for it. All at once we 
find that twice two make fire. Nature is fond of what is called 
"gift entei-prises." This little book of life which she has given in- 
to the hands of its joint possessors is commonly one of the old story 
books -bound over again. Only once in a great while there is a 
stately poem in it, or its leaves are illuminated mth the glories of 
art, or they enfold a draft for untold values signed by the million - 
fold millionaire old mother herself. But strangers are commonly 
the first to find the "gift" that came with the little book. 



Jerusalem. 



The broad noon lingers on the summit of Mount Olivet, but its 
beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absa- 
lom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehosaphat. Full 
falls its splendor, however, on the opposite city,vi\Tid and defined 
in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers and fre- 
quent gates, undulates with the unequal ground which it covers, as 
it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hiUs far more 
famous than those of Eome ; for all Europe has heard of Zion and 
of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and 
nations beyond, are as ignorant of the Capitolan and Aventine 
Mounts as they are of the Malvern or the Chilteru Hihs. 



TBEASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD, 223 

The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David; 
nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of 
Abraham, but built, alas 1 by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's 
chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and 
airy arches, the moonlight falls upon Bethesda's pool; further on, 
entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of 
night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent 
to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary — called the Street 
of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human, as weU 
as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine 
son of the favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suf- 
fering and shame which is now throughout all Christendom the 
emblem of triumph and of honor; passing over groups and masses 
of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with 
small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built 
his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus 
gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus de- 
stroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted 
the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their 
imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, 
is now worshiped before every altar in Eome. Jerusalem by moon- 
light! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its indissoluble associa- 
tions of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour softens the austerity 
of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, however harsh and 
severe in detail; and, while it retains all its sublimity, removes 
much of the savage sternness of the strange and unrivaled scene. 

A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, and rising in 
the center of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally offering, 
through their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer land! 

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars 
in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The 
all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have 
traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among 
the tombs and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree 
trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze 



224 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

that has traveled over the plains of Sharon from the sea? Or is 
it the hiiuuting voice of prophets nioiii-uing over the city that they 
could not save? Their spirits surely woiild linger on the land where 
their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending 
fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this mount who 
can but believe that, at the midnight hour, from the summit of the 
Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the 
battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes 
and sages, who need shrink fi'om no rivalry with the brightest and 
wisest of other lands ; but the lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, 
whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has ceased 
for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in aU 
nations of the earth; the teacher, whose doctrines have modeled 
civilized Europe — the greatest of legislators, the greatest of admin- 
istrators, and the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct or liv- 
ing, can produce three such men as these? 

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The 
wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads 
over the pui-ple sky; the stars are veiled; the stars are hid; all be- 
comes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehosapliat. 
The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer ghtter the 
minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the 
gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and 
the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the 
increasing darkness, while the line of the very walls gradually 
eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulcher is a beacon light. 

And why is the church of the Holy Sepulcher a beacon light? 
Wliy, when it is already past the noon of darkness, when eveiy 
soul slumbers in Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep 
repose except the howl of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind- 
why is the cupola of the sanctuary illumined, though the horn- 
has long since been numbered when the pilgrims there kneel and 
the monks pray? 

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the 
church; within the church itself two brethren of the convent of 



TEEASUllES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 225 

Terra Santa keep holy watch and ward, while at the tomb beneath 
th^e kneels a solitary youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and 
who will there pass unmoved the whole of the sacred night. 

Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin church; 
neither is he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; Ma- 
ronite, Coptic, or Abyssinian — these also are Christian churches 
which cannot call him child. He comes from a distant and a 
northern isle to bow before the tomb of a descendant of the kings 
of Israel, because he, in common with all the people of that isle, 
recognizes in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the presence of a 
Divine Eedeemer. Then why does he come alone? It is not that 
he has availed himself of the inventions of modern science, to 
repair first to a spot which all his countrymen may equally desire 
to visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the 
inventions of modern science, all his countrymen used to flock 
hither. Then why do they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer 
hallowed? Is it not the land of sacred and mysterious truths? 
The land of heavenly messages and earthly miracles? The land of 
prophets and apostles? Is it not the land upon whose mountains 
the Creator of the universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of 
whose anointed race He mystically assumed when he struck 
the last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed that there 
are no peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which 
distinguished it from all others — that Palestine is like Normandy, 
or Yorkshire, or even Attica or Kome? 

There may be some who maintain this; there have been some, 
and those, too, among the wisest and the wittiest of the northern 
and western races, who, touched by a presumj)tuous jealousy of the 
long predominance of that oriental intellect to which they ov/( d 
their civilization, would have persuaded themselves and the world 
that the traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a cen- 
tury ago Europe made a violent and apparently successful effort to 
disembarrass itself of its Asian faith. The most powerful and the 
most civilized of its kingdoms, about to conquer the rest, shut up 
its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred and persecuted their 



220 TREASURES FliOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

sacred servaDts, and annoimced that the Hebrew creeds wliich 
Siinou Peter brought from Palestine, and which his successors 
revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has been 
the result'? In every city, town, village and hamlet of that great 
Idngdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has 
been again raised amid the homage of kneeling millions; while in 
the heart of its bright and witty capital the nation has erected the 
most gtn'goous of modern temples, and consecrated its marble and 
golden walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a 
Hebrew woman. The country of which the sohtary pilgrim, kneel- 
ing at this moment at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not 
actively shared in that insurrection against the first and second Tes- 
tament which distinguished the end of the eighteenth century. But 
more than six hundred years before, it had sent its king and the 
flower of its peers and people, to rescue Jerusalem from those whom 
they considere'd infidels! and now, instead of the third crusade, 
they expand their superfluous energies in the construction of rail- 
roads. 

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which 
such vast treasure, such prodigies of valor and such ardent belief 
had been wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have 
tended to disturb the faith of Europe, although it should have car- 
ried convictions of a very difl'erent character. The Crusaders looked 
upon the Saracens as infidels, whereas tlie children of the desert 
bore a much nearer afliuity to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief 
space, consecrated the Holy Sepulchre, than any of the invading 
host of Europe. The same blood flowed in their veins, and tliey 
recognized the divine missions both of Moses and of his greater suc- 
cessor. In an age so deficient in physiological learning as the 
twelfth century, the mysteries of race were unknown. Jerusalem, 
it cannot be doubted, will ever remain the appendage either of Israel 
or of Ishmael; and if, in the course of these great vicissitudes 
which are no doubt im.pending for the East, there be any attempt to 
place upon the throne of David a prince of the House of Coburg or 
Deuxpouts, the same fate will doubtless await him, as, with all 



TREASURES PROM TriK I'ROSM WORM). 227 

their ljiiJli;i-ut qualities iuid iill the syiiiputliy of J'luropo, was the 
final doom of the Godfreys, the l^aldwins, and the Lusignans. 



Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City of 
Venice. 

It was in Switzerland that I first felt how constantly to con- 
template sublime creation develops the poetic power. It was here 
that I first began to study nature. Those forests of blaclf, gigantic 
pines rising out of the deep snows; those tall, white catnracts, lenp- 
ing like headstrong youth into the world, and dashing from their 
precipices as if allured by the beautiful delusion of their own rain- 
bow mist; those mighty clouds sailing benesith my feet, or clinging 
to the bosoms of the dark green mountains, or boiling up like a 
spell from the invisible and unfathomable depths; the fell ava- 
lanche, fleet as a spirit of evil, terrific when it suddenly breaks \ip- 
on the almighty silence, scarcely less terrible when we gaze upon 
its crumbling and pallid frame, varied only l)y the presence of one 
or two blasted firs; the head of a mountain loosening from its 
broth(;r peak, rooting uj), in the roar of its rapid rush, a whole for- 
est of pines, and covering the earth for miles with ele])h!U)tino 
masses; the supernatural extent of landscape that opens to us iw.w 
worlds; the strong eagles and the strange wild birds tliat nuddcijily 
cross yon in your path, and stare, and shrieking fly — and all the 
soft sights of joy and loveliness that nnngle with these sublime and 
savage spectacles, the rich pastures and the numerous flocks, and 
the golden bees and the wild flowers, and the carved and painted 
cottages, and the simple maimer and the primeval grace — wherever 
I moved, I was in turn appalled or enchanted; but whatever I be- 
held, new images ever sprang up in my mind, and new feelings 
ever crowded on my fancy. • • • • 

If I were to assign the particular quality which conduces to 
that dreamy and voluptuous existence which men of high imagina- 



228 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

tion oxiiovionoo in Vonico, I shoiild describe it. as the feeling of 
ubsti-aetiou, which is remarkable in that city, and peculiar to it. 
Venice is tJie only city which can yield tJie magical delights of soh- 
tnde. All is still and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries ; 
fancy, therefore, is not put to flight. No rudo sound distracts your 
self -consciousness. This reiulers existence intense. We feel every- 
thing. And AVG feel tlnis keenly in a city not only eminently beau- 
tiful, not only aboiuuling in wonderful creations of art, but each 
step of which is hallowed ground, quick with associations, that in 
tlieir more various nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and 
lierhaps their more picturesque character, exercise a greater intiu- 
ence over the imagination tlian the more antique story of Greece 
and Rome. We feel all tliis in a city, too, wliich, although her lus- 
ter bo indeed dimmed, c;ui still count among her daughters, maidens 
f:urer than the orient pearls with which her warriors once loved to 
dcdc tliem. Poetry, Tradition, and Love — these are the Graces 
that invested vdtli an ever charming cestus this Aphrodite of cities. 



A Good Man's Day. 

Every day is a little life; and our whole life is but a day 
repeated; whence it is that old Jacob nmubers his hfebydays; 
Moses desii-es to be taught this point of holy arithmetic, to number 
not his years, but his days. Those, therefore, that dare lose a day, 
are dangerously prodigal; those that dare misspend it, desperate. 
We can best teach others by ourselves; let me tell your lordsliip 
how I would j>ass my days, whether common or sacred, that you 
(or whosoever otliers overhearing me,) may either approve my 
thriftiuess, or correct my erroi's; to whom is the account of my 
hours either more due, or more knowni. All days are His who 
gave time a beginning and continuance; yet some He hatli made 
ours, not to command, but to use. 

In none may we forget him; in some we must forget all be- 



TBEASUllES FKOM THE I'llOSE WOULD. 229 

sides Him. First, therefore, I desire to wake at those hours, not 
when I will, but when I must; pleasure is not a lit rule for rest, 
but healtli; noitlicr do T consult so uiucli with tlio sun, as mine 
own necessity, whether of body or in that of mind. If tliis vassal 
could well serve mo wakiii<j;, it shoiUd never sleep; hut now it must 
ho pleased, that it may ho servicea1)le. Now, when sleep is rather 
driven away tlian leaves me, I woidd ever awake with (iod; my 
first thoughts are for llim who hath made the night for rest and 
the day for travel; and as He gives, so blesses both. If my heart 
bo early seasoned witli His presence, it will savor of Him all day 
after. Wliile my body is dressing, not with an elTeminato curios- 
ity, nor yet with rude neglect, my mind addresses itself to her 
ensuing task, bethinking what is to l)e done, and in what order, 
and marslialling (as it may) my liours with my work; tliat done, 
after some while's meditation, 1 walk up to my masters and com- 
panions, my books, and sitting down amongst them with tlic best 
contontnu'iit, I dare not roach fortli my hand to salute any of 
them, till I liave first looked up to heaven, and craved favor of Ilhn 
to whom all my studies are duly referred; without whom I can 
neither profit ]ior labor. After this, out of no over great variety, I 
call forth those which may best fit my occasions, wherein I am not 
too scrupulous of age. Sometimes I put myself to school to one 
of those ancients whom the Church hath honored with the name of 
Fathers, whose volumes I confess not to open without a secret rev- 
erence of their holiness and gravity; sometimes to those later doc- 
tors, which want nothing but age to luake them classical; always 
to God's Book. That day is lost whereof some hours are not im- 
proved in those divine monuments; others I turn over out of choice; 
these out of duty. Ere I can have sat unto weariness, my family, 
having now overcome all household distractions, invites me to our 
common devotions; not without some short preparatitm. These, 
heartily performed, send nu) up with a, more strong and cheerful 
appetite to my former work, which I find nuule easy to me l)y inter- 
mission and variety; now, therefore, can 1 deceive the hours with 
change of pleasures, that is, of labors. One while mine eyes are 



230 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

busioil, anotiier while luy hand, and sometimes my miud takes the 
burden from them both; wherein I would imitate tJie skilfuUest 
cooks, which make the best dishes with manifold mixtures; one 
hour is spent in textual di\'inity, another in controversy; histories 
relieve tliem both. Now, when the mind is weary of others' la- 
bors, it begins to undertake her own ; sometimes it meihtates and 
winds up for future use; sometimes it lays forth her conceits into 
present iliscourse; sometimes for itself, after for others. Neither 
know I whether it Avorks or plays in these thoughts. I am sure no 
sport hath more pleasure, no work more use ; only the decay of a 
weak body makes me think these delights insensibly laborious. 
Thus could I all day (as singers use) make myself music with 
changes, and complain sooner of the day for shortness than of tlie 
business for toil, were it not that tliis faint monitor interrupts me 
still in the midst of my busy pleasures, and enforces me both to 
respite and repast. I must yield to both ; while my body and mind 
are joined together in these unequal couples, the better must follow 
the weaker. Before my meals, therefore, and after, I let myself 
loose from all tlioughts, and now would forget that I ever studied; 
a full mind t:ikes away the body's appetite, no less tlian a full body 
makes a dull and unwieliUy mind; company, discourse, recreations, 
are now seasonable and welcome; tJiese prepare me for a diet, not 
gluttonous, but medicinal. The palate may not be pleased, but the 
stomach, nor that for its own sake; neither would I think any of 
tliese comforts worth respect in themselves but in their use, in their 
end, so far as they may enable me to better things. If I see any 
disU to tempt my palate, I fear a serjient in that apple, and would 
please myself in a wilful denial ; I rise capable of more, not desir- 
ous; not now immediately from my trencher to my book, but after 
some intermission. Moderate speed is a sure help to all proceed- 
ings; wdiere those tilings which are prosecuted with violence of 
endeavor or desire, either succeed not or continue not. 

After my later meal, my tlioughts are slight, only my memory 
mav be charged with her task of recalling what was committed to 
her custody in the day ; and my heart is busy in examining my 



TEEASUKES FBOM THE PllOHE WORLD. 231 

hands aud mouth, and all other senses of that day's behavior. 
And now the evening is come; no tradesman doth more carefully 
take in his wares, clear his shopboard, and shut his window, 
than I would shut up my thoughts and clear my mind. That 
student shall live miserably, which like a camel lies down under 
his burden. All tliis done, calling together my family, wc end 
the day with God; thus do we rather drive away the time before 
us than follow it. I grant neither is my practice worthy to bo 
exemplary, neither are our callings proportionable. The life of 
a nobleman, of a courtier, of a scholar, of a citizen, of a country- 
man, differ no less than their dispositions; yet must all conspire in 
honest labor. 

Sweat is the destiny of all trades, whether of tlie ])rows or of 
the mind. God never allowed any man to do nothing. How mis- 
erable is the condition of those men who spend the time as if it 
were given them, and not lent; as if hours were waste creatures, 
and such as should never be accounted lor; as if God would take 
this for a good bill of reckoning: Item, spent upon my pleasures 
forty years ! These men shall once find that no blood can privilege 
idleness, and that nothing is more jirecious to God tluin that which 
they desire to cast away — time. Such are my common days; but 
God's day calls for another respect. The same sun arises on this 
day; and enlightens it; yet because that Sun of Righteousness 
arose on it, and drew the strength of God's moral precept unto it, 
therefore justly do we sing with the Psalmist, "This is the day 
which the Lord hath made." . Now I forget the world, iiiid in a 
sort myself; and deal with my wonted thoughts, as great men use, 
who, at some times of their jirivacy, forbid the access of all suitors. 
Prayer, meditation, reading, hearing, preaching, singing, good con- 
ference, are the businesses of this day, which I dare not bestow on 
any work, or pleasure, but heavenly. 

I hate superstition on the one side, and looseness on the other; 
but I find it hard to offend in too much devotion, easy in profane- 
ness. The whole week is sanctified by this day; and according to 
my care of this is my blessing ou the rest. I show your lordship 



232 TKEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Avhat I would do, and -Nvliat I ought; I commit my desires to the 
imitation of the weak, my actions to the censures of the wise and 
holy, my weaknesses to the pardon and redress of my merciful God. 



Silent Forces. 



I have seen tlie wild stone avalanches of the Alps, which smoke 
and thunder down the declivities with a vehemence almost sufficient 
to stun the observer. I have also seen snowflakes descending so 
softly as not to hurt the fragile spangles of which tliey were com- 
posed ; yet to produce from aqueous vapor a quantity of that tender 
material which a child could carry, demands an exertion of energy 
competent to gather up the shattered blocks of the largest stone 
avalanche I have ever seen, and pitch them to tmce the height from 
which they fell. 





.lOSlAll (iH.UKKl- ItOl.l.ANO. 



TBEASUItES FROM TIIK J'llOHE WORLD. '2:j;{ 



JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. 



JG. HOLLANJ) wan born in Bclchortowii, Mjibh., July 
24, IS I!), and died October 12, 1881. 

J lo practiced inodicino for a bhort time, Hupcrintondcd 
tlio Hcliools in VickHburg, MaHH., for a year, and in 1849, be- 
came associate editor of tlio Springfield, Ma,HH., UepaJdic an. 
l'\)r the columns of this piijxir lie wrote several of bis pop- 
ular works. In 1H70, lie bcicaiiie editor of ScrUmcrH Monllihi, 
in New York. Tiie following are Jiis published works: 77/6' 
liai) Path, publisbcjd in 1857 ; TIiiloUij) 'rUcoinl/s LcUera to tJic 
Yomuj, 1858; Hitler Hwect, a dramatic poem, 1858; (Jold 
Foil, Hammered from Popular ProverJts, 1859; Miss (jilbert'n 
Career, IHiiO ; Lessona in Life, 1861 ; Letters to the Joneses, 
1863; Plain Talk on Familiar Subjects, 1865; J/ife of Ahra- 
Juvm Lincoln, 186G; Katlirina, Her Life and Mine, a narra- 
tive poem, 1867. 

His novels are bis l)est and most artistic works. ITis 
poems are filled with line sentiment, but they lack the smooth- 
ness and poetic finish of a truly great poet. Bitter Sweet 
and Kathrina have been immensely popular. They gained 
a circulation which has been awarded to ])ut f(!W American 
works. 

Holland is known as the popular editor of Scribners 
Moil I hi//. TTis lessons of life are truly noble, and tb(! relig- 
ious tone given to many of his works is specially commend- 
able. 



L31 TBEASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



To Goodrich Jones, Jr. 

[Concerning Ms disposition to be content -w-ith the respectability and wealth 
which his father has acquired for him.] 

Your father, by a life of integrity and close and skilful applica- 
tion to business, has made for himself a good reputation in the 
world, and become what the world calls rich. He hves in a good 
house, moves in good society, commands for his family all desirable 
luxuries of dress and equipage, and holds a position which places 
him upon an equahty with the greatest and best. He began hum- 
bly, if I am correctly informed, and has won his eminence by the 
force of his own hfe and character. I honor him. I count him 
worthy of the respect of every man, and I find myself disposed to 
treat his family with respect on his account — for his sake. This 
feeling toward his family, which I find springing up spontaneously 
within myself seems to be quite universal. The world bows to the 
family of the -venerable Goodrich Jones — bows, not to Mrs. -Jones, 
particularly, as a respectable woman, but to the wife of Goodrich 
Jones — bows not to his children, as young men and women of 
intelligence and good morals, but as young people who are to be 
treated with more than ordinary courtesy because they are the 
children of the rich and respectable Goodrich Jones. 

This feeHng of the world toward Mr. Goodrich Jones' family 
is very natural. It is a tribute of respect to a worthy old gentle- 
man, and, so far as he is concerned, is one of the natural rewards 
of his life of industry and integrity. I notice, however, that the 
family of Mr. Jones have come to look upon these tributes of re- 
spect to them, on account of Mr. Jones, as quite the proper and 
regular thing, and to feel that then ^^^ really worthy of special at- 
tention, because Mr. Jones commands it for himself. Instead of 
f eehng a little humihated by the consciousness that they are treated 



TKEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 235 

with special politeness, not because they are particularly brilliant, 
or rich, or well bred, but because they are the family of a rich and 
respectable man, they are incHned to feel proud of it. How they 
manage to be vain of respectability and wealth won for them by 
somebody beside themselves, I do not knoWf but I suppose their 
case is not singular. Indeed, I know that the world is full of such 
cases, many of which would be ridiculous were they not pitiful. 

The thought that you, Goodrich Jones, Jr., are the son of 
Goodrich Jones, and that you bear his name, seems to form the 
basis of your estimate of yourself. I have already given the rea- 
son why the world treats you respectfully, but that reason need not 
necessarily be identical with that which leads you to respect your- 
self. If, owing to some circumstances or agency beyond your con- 
trol, you were to be suddenly stripped of all your ready money and 
other resources, and set down in some distant city among strangers, 
what would be your first impulse? Would you go to work, and try 
to make a place for yourself? Would you be wilhng to pass for 
just what you are — to be estimated for just what there is in you of 
the elements of manhood, or would you endeavor to convince 
everybody that you were the son of a certain very rich and respect- 
able Goodrich Jones, and try to secure consideration for yourself 
by such rejiresentation ? I presume you would pursue the same 
pohcy among strangers that you jnirsue among friends. You have 
never made an effort to be respected for works or personal merits 
of your own. You push yourself forward everywhere as the son of 
Goodrich Jones — indeed, as Goodrich Jones, Jr. You have not 
only been content to hve in the shadow of your father's name, but 
you have been apparently anxious to invite pubhc attention to the 
fact that you do. You have not only been content to Hve upon 
money which yo:ir father has made, but you seem dehghted to 
have it understood that you can draw upon him for aU you want. 
You seem to have no ambition to make either reputation or money 
for yourself. On the contrary, I think you would look upon it as 
disgraceful for you to engage in business for the purpose of win- 
ning wealth by labor. 



236 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Now, will you permit one who has bowed to you frequently for 
your father's sake, to talk very plainly to you for your own? Let 
me assure you, in the first place, that all this respect which the 
world shows to you is unsubstantial and unrehable. The man who 
treats you with respeact because your father is rich would cease to 
treat you with respect if you were to become poor. The man who 
bows to you because your father occupies a high social position, 
would pass you without recognition were your father, for any rea- 
son, to lose that position. Let me assure you that the world does 
not care for you any further than you are the partaker of the money 
and the respectability Avhich have been achieved by your father. 
Nay, I wiU go further, and say tliat, side by side mth the deference 
which it shows for you on your father's account, it cherishes con- 
tempt for one who is Avilling to receive his position at second hand. 
You cannot complain of this, for you place your claims for social 
consideration entirely on your father's j)osition. The negro slave is 
proud of the superior wealth of his master, and among his fellow 
slaves, assumes a superior position in consequence of wealth which 
_is not his own. He belongs to a splendid establishment, and, in 
his own eyes, wins importance from the association. When his 
master fails, the slave sinks. No, sir, there is nothing reliable in 
this consideration of the world for you. You are only treated as a 
representative of the wealth and respectabihty of another man, and 
if he were to be displeased with you, and were to disown and disin- 
herit you, you would find yourself without a friend in the world. 

In the second j)lace, your position is an unmanly one. None 
but a mean man can be wiUing to hold his position at second hand. 
I count him fortunate who is born to pleasant and good social 
relations, and aU the advantages which they bring him for the 
development of his personal character; but I count him most un- 
fortunate who, bom to such relations, is wilhng to hold them as a 
birthright alone. A man who is willing to keep a place in society 
which his father has given him, through his father's continued 
influence, is necessarily mean spirited and contemptible. Eveiy 
young man of a manly spirit who finds himself in good society, 
through the influences of others, will prove his right to the place 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOflLl). 23? 

and hold the place by his own merits. No man of your age can 
consent to hold his social position solely through the influence of his 
father without convicting himself either of imbecility or meanness. 
If you had any geiiuine self-respect, yon would feel that to owe to 
others what you are capable of winning for yourself, and to be con- 
sidered only as a portion of a rich and respectable man's belongings, 
is a disgrace to your manhood. 

I suppose the thought has never occurred to you that you owe 
something to your father for what he has done for you. He gave 
you position. His name shielded you through all your childhood 
and youth from many of the dangers and disadvantages which 
other young men are f ( )rced to encounter. He gave you great vantage 
ground in the work of life, and you owe it to him to improve it. 
If your name helps you, you ought to do something for your name. 
If your father honors you, you ought to honor him, and to do as 
much for his name as he has done for yours. You have no moral 
right to disgrace one who has done so much for you ; for his reputa- 
tion is partly in your keeping. It would be an everlasting disgrace 
to him to bring up a boy who rehed solely upon his father for re- 
spectabihty. It would be a blot upon his reputation to have a son 
so mean as to be content with a name and fortune at second hand. 
I tell you, sir, that you must change your plan and course of life, 
or people will talk more and more of your unworthiness to stand 
in your father's shoes, and express their wonder more and more 
that so sensible and industrious a father could train a son so in- 
efl&ciently as he has trained you. When this good father of yours 
shall_die, you will be thrown more upon yourself. You will have 
money, I presume, and you will still sit in the comfortable shadows of 
your father's name ; but the Avorld changes, and strangers will esti- 
mate you at your true value, and those who knew your father will 
only talk of the sad contrast between his character and your own. 

I suppose you are not above the desire for the good will of the 
world. Well, the world is made vij) of workers. The great masses 
of men — and your father is among the number — are obliged to 
depend upon their own labor and their own force and excellence of 



238 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

character for wealth and position. People do not envy him, be- 
cause he won all that he possesses by his own skill and industry. 
He is universally admired and esteemed, and you are enjoying 
some of the fruits of this admiration and esteem in the politeness 
of the world toward yourself; but this will not always last. You 
must mingle in the world's work, and cast in your lot with your 
fellows, contributing your share of labor, and taking what comes 
of it in pelf and position, or else you wiU be voted out of the pale 
of popular sympathy. The world does not love drones, and you 
must cease to be a drone or it will never love you. 

I suppose it is hard for you to realize that you are not the 
object of envy among men, but I wish you could for once feel the 
contempt which your parasitic position excites even among men 
whom you deem beneath your notice. There are many young men 
who have been compeUed to labor all their lives for bread, that 
woidd shrink from exchanging places with you as from a loathsome 
disgrace. They would not take your idle habits, your foppish 
tastes, your childish spirit, and your reputation, for all your father's 
money; and these men, strange as it may seem to your mean spirit, 
are more respected and better loved by the world than yourself. I 
say that you are not above the desire for the good will of the 
world; but, if you would get it, you must be a man. You must 
show that you have a man's spirit, and that you are mUing to do a 
man's work. No idle man ever yet hved upon the wealth won for 
him by others and at the same time enjoyed the love of the world. 

All this you will find out by-aud-by ^vithout my telling you, 
but then it may be too late for remedy. You are now young, but, 
if you live, you will come at length to realize that instead of being 
envied, you are despised. You wiU make a sadder discovery, too, 
than this. You ^^ill discover that you have as httle basis for self- 
respect as for popular regard. Years cannot fail to reveal to you 
some things which youth hides from you. You ^vill find that the 
world is busy, that you have no one to spend your time with, and 
that the men who have power and public consideration are men 
who have sometliing to do besides killing time and spending money. 



TBEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 230 

You will find that you are without sympathy and companionship 
among the best people, and when you ascertain the reason— for it 
will be so obvious that you will not fail to see it — you will learn 
that you are not worthy of their sympathy and companionship. 
In short, you will learn to despise yourself. 

I have already spoken to you of the debt which you owe to 
your father for what he has done for you. There are some further 
considerations relating to your family which I wish to offer. A 
family name and reputation are things of life and growth. The 
character which your father has made is a product of life, so grand 
and far-spreading that his family sits beneath, and is sheltered by 
it. It is the law of aU vital products that they shall grow, or hold 
their ground against encroachment, by what they feed upon. Food 
must be constant, or death is sure to come, soon or late. The 

character of your family — its power, position and higli relations 

is the product of your father's vital force, working in various ways. 
Not many years hence, that force must stop its work. Your father 
will die, and imless you take up his work and do it, this family 
character wiU pine and dwindle, and ultimately sink in utter decay. 

Look around you and see how some of the rich and infiuential 
old families have died out, because there was no man in them to 
keep them ahve. The founder of the family did what he could, 
raised his family to the highest social position, gave them woaltli, 
bequeathed to them a good name, and died. The sons who fol- 
lowed were not worthy of him. They were not men. They were 
babies, who were willing to hve upon their family name, and who 
did hve upon it until they consumed it. It is sad to see a family 
name fade out as it often does, through the failure of its men to 
feed it with the blood of a worthy hfe ; and yours will fade out in a 
single generation, if you do not immediately prepare yourself to 
take up your father's work, and carry it on. It is always pleasant 
and inspiring to see young men who expect to inherit money enter- 
ing with energy upon the work of hfe, as if they had their fortunes 
to make. It proves that they are men, and proves that they are 
preparing to handle usefully the money that is to come into their 



240 TREASUKES FEOM THE tROSE WORLD. 

hands. It proves that they intend to win respect for themselves, 
and to lay at least tlie foundation of their own fortune. When I 
see such men, I feci that the name of their families is safe in their 
keeping, and that, for at least one generation, those families can- 
not sink. The desire to he somehody besides somebody's son, 
shows a manly disposition, which the world at once recognizes, 
and to which it freely opens its heart. 

I am aware that a young man in your position has great temp- 
tations, and labi>rs under great disadvantages. We are in the habit of 
regarding a poor young mm, who has neither family name nor in- 
fluence, as laboring under disadvantages, and in some aspects of 
his case, we regard him rightly. But he has certainly the advan- 
tage of the stimulus which obstacles to be overcome afford. The 
poor man sees that he must make his own fortune, or that his for- 
tune ^^^ll not be made at all ; and tlie obstacles that he before him 
only stimulate him to labor with the greater efficiency. When I 
see a poor young man bravely accepting his lot, and patiently and 
heroically applying himself to the work ofc bxiilding a fortune and 
achie\ang a position, I am moved to thank God for his poverty, for 
I know that in that poverty he will ultimately discover the secret of 
his best successes. 

Your disadvantage is that position and wealth have already 
been won for you. It is not necessary for you to labor to get bread 
and clothing and a comfortable home. These have iilready been 
won fen- you by other hands. I do not deny that this condition of 
things is naturally enervating. I confess that it takes much good 
sense aiid an unusual degree of manliness to resist the temptations 
to idleness which it brings ; but you must resist them or suffer the 
saddest consequences. You must labor in a stead}', manly way to 
make your own place in the world, as a fitting preparation for the 
husbandry and enjoyment of the wealth wliich will some day be 
yours. If you have not those considerations in your favor which 
stimulate the poor man to exertion, then you must adopt those 
which I have tried to present to you. Y'ou nuist remember that to 
be content witli a position received at second hand, and to live 



TREASUEES FIIOM THE PllOSE WORLD. 241 

simply to spend the money earned by others is most unmanly. 
You must remember that you owe it to your father and to your 
family name and fame, to keep your family in the position of con- 
sideration and influence in which he has placed it, arid that it is 
certain to recede from that position unless you do. You must re- 
member that only by work can you win the good will of the world 
around you, or win and retain respect for yourself. 

If the disadvantages of your i)osition are great, your reward 
for worthy work is also great. The world always recognizes the 
strength of the temj)tations which attach to the position of a rich 
young man, and awards to him a peculiar honor for that spirit 
which refuses to be respected for anything Init his own manliness. 
I know of no young men who hold the good-will of the public more 
thoroughly than those who set aside all the temptations to indolence 
and indulgence which attend wealth, and put themselves heartily to 
the work of deserving the social jjosition to which they are born, 
and of earning the bread which a father's wealth has already 
secured. You have but to will and to work, and this beautiful re- 
ward will be yours. 



Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of 
them? Sixty thousand ! Sixty full regiments, every man of which 
will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, he 
down in the grave of a drunkard! Every year during the past 
decade has witnessed the same sacrifice; and sixty regiments stand 
behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from 
our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — 
the sounds come to us in the echoes of the army just expired; trami), 
tramp, tramp — the earth shakes with the tread of the host now 
passing; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes to us from the camp of the 
recruits. A great tide of life flows resistlcssly to its death. What in 



242 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

God's name are they fighting for? The privilege of pleasing an 
appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand 
homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the bur- 
den of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of 
detracting from the productive industries of the countiy, of ruining 
fortunea and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, 
of destroying both body and soul in hell before their time. 

The prosperity of the hquor interest, covering every department 
of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot 
live without it. It never did live without it. So long as the hquor 
interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it will cost 
America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect 
is inseparable from the cause. The cost to the country of the liquor 
trafiic is a sum so stupendous that any figures which we should 
dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of life abso- 
lutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the amount of 
bread transformed into poison, the shame, the unavaihng sorrow, 
the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the brutahty, the wild waste 
of vital and financial resources, make an aggregate so vast, — so 
incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that the American peo- 
ple do not rise as one man and declare that this great curse shall 
exist no longer. 

A hue-and-cry is raised about woman suffrage, as if any wrong 
which may be involved in woman's lack of the suffrage could be 
compared to the wrongs attached to the liquor interest. 

Does any sane woman doubt that women are suifering a thou- 
sand times more from rum than from political disability? 

The truth is, that there is no question before the American 
people to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance 
question. The question of American slavery was never anything 
but a baby by the side of this ; and we prophecy that within ten 
years, if not within five, the whole country wiU be awake to it, and 
divided upon it. The organizations of the hquor interest, the vast 
funds at its command, the universal feeling of those whose business 
is pitted against the national prosperity and pubhc morals — these 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 21n 

are enough to show that, upou one side of this matter, at least, tin 
present condition of things and the social and political questions 
that he in the immediate future are apprehended. The liquor inter- 
est knows there is to be a great struggle, and is preparing to meet 
it. People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning 
lo see the enormity of the business — are beginning to realize that 
Christian civihzation is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that 
there can be no purification of it until the source of the poison is 
dried up. 

Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, 
which they mus1> sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liqucr 
interest and influences. Steps are being taken on behalf of the 
pubhc health, morals and prosperity, which they must approve by 
voice and act, or they must consent to be left behind and left out. 
There can be no concession and no compromise on the part of tem- 
perance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our 
country and our race must be destroyed. 

Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of 
sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, 
some are wild with hilarity and dance alo)ig the dusty way, some 
reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous 
impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children 
whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop in wayside debauch- 
eries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from 
Avhich they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and aU are 
poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. 



244 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



My Mother's Bible. 

Ou one of the shelves in my library, surrounded by volumes of 
aU kinds on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an 
old book, in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to 
the eye, and apparently out of place among the more preten- 
tious volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it 
has certainly neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn; 
its leaves marred by long use; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it 
is the most beautiful and most valuable book on my shelves. No 
other awakens su.ch associations, or so appeals to all that is best 
and noblest within me. It is, or rather it ivas, my mother's Bible 
— companion of her best and hoHest hours, source of her.unspeak- 
able joy and consolation. From it she derived the principles of a 
truly Christian life and character. It was the hght to her feet, 
and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side; and, as 
her steps tottered in the advancing pilgrimage of hfe, and her eyes 
grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the well 
worn pages. 

One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of 
the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars 
and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal 
Sabbath — to look upon the face of Him of whom the law and the 
prophets had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. 
And now, no legacy is to me more precious than that old Bible. 
Years have passed ; but it stands there on its shelf, eloquent as ever, 
witness of a beautiful life that is finished, and a silent monitor to 
the li\dng. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, "Be not cast 
down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of 
thy coimtenance and thy God." In moments of weakness and fear 
it says, "Be strong, my son; and quit yourself manfully." When 
sometimes, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come 
back to the study, weai-y of the world and tired of men — of men 



TBEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 245 

that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so unfeehng— and 
the strings of the soiil have become untuned and discordant, I seem 
to hear that Book saying, as with the well remembered tones of a 
voice long sHent, "Let not your heart be troubled. For what is 
yourhfe? It is even as a vapor." Then my troubled spirit be- 
comes cahn; and the httle world, that had grown so great and so 
formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I am 
strong. 

There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or 
open it. A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of 
association supply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is 
otherwise; hours in hfe when some deeper grief has troubled the 
heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the 
dwelling, and when it is comfort to take down that old Bible and 
search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the original 
languages, the notes and commentaries, and all the critical appara- 
tus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of the 
Scriptures, are laid aside; and the j^lain old Enghsh Bible that was 
my mother's is taken from the shelf. 



The Wonders of an Atom. 

All things visible around us are aggregations of atoms. From 
particles of dust, which under the microscope coidd scarcely be dis- 
tinguished one from the other, are all the varied forms of nature 
created. This grain of dust, this particle of sand, has strange 
properties and powers. Science has discovered some, but still more 
truths are hidden within this irregular molecule of matter which 
wc now survey than even philosophy dares dream of. How strangely 
it obeys the impulses of heat — mysterious are the influences of 
light upon it — electricity wonderfully excites it — and still more cu- 
rious is the manner in which it obeys the magic of chemical force. 
These are phenomena which we have seen ; we know them and we 



246 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

can reproduce them at our pleasure. We have advanced a httle 
way into the secrets of nature, and from the spot we have gained 
we look forward with a vision somewhat brightened by our task; 
but we discover so much yet unknown that we learn another truth 
— our vast ignorance of many things relating to this grain of dust. 

It gatliers around it other particles; they cling together, and 
each acting upon every other one, and all of them arranging them- 
sc^lves around the littJe center, according to some law, a. beautiful 
crystal results, the geometric perfection of its form being a source 
of admiration. 

It quickens with yet undiscovered energies; it moves witli life; 
dust, and vital force combine ; blood and bone, nerve and muscle 
result from the combination. Forces which we cjin not, by the 
utmost refinements of our philosophy detect, direct the whole, and 
from the same dust which formed the rock and grew in tlie tree, is 
produced a living and a breatliing tiling, capable of receiving a 
divine iUumination, of bearing in its new state the gladness and 
the glory of a soul. 



The Mocking Bird. 

The plumage of the mocking bird, though none of the home- 
liest, has luithing gaudy or brilliant in it; and, had ho nothing else 
to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice, but his 
figure is well proportioned and even handsome. The ease, elegance, 
and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and tlie 
intelligence he displays in listening and laying up lessons from 
almost every species of tlie feathered creation within his hearing, 
are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To 
these qualities we may add that of a voice fuU, strong, and musicjil, 
and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear mellow 
tones of the wood thrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle. 
In measure and accent he faithfully follows his originals. In force 



4 



TKEASUllES F1U)M THE I'KOSE W0HL1>, 247 

and BwcctiicsK of cxpniSHioii lio f,a'oatly iiiiprovoa n])()n tliom. In 
hi.s niitivc; fj;r()V(3», luouiiiod on tlio top of ;i, tall l)U.sh or hiiJf-grown 
tree, ill tlic (Liwii of a dewy nioruiiig, wliik; tlio woods arc already 
vocal with a, multitude of wa,rblorH, his admirable soug rises pre- 
eminent over every ccuiipetitor. The ear can listen to liis music; 
alone, to which that of iill the others seems a more accompani- 
ment. Neither is tliis strain altogcsther imitative. His own native 
notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well ai;- 
quainted with those of our various song birds, are bold and full, 
and varied seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short ex- 
pressions of two, three, or at the most, five or six syllables; gen- 
erally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with 
great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiminished 
ardor, for half an hour or an hour at a time, his expanded wings 
and tail, glistening with white, and the liuoyant gnyety of his ac- 
tion, arresting the eye, as his song most irresistil)ly does tlie ear. 
He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstacy — he mounts and de- 
scends a,s his song swells or dies away; and, as my friend Mr. Bar- 
tram has be;iutifully expressed it, "Ho bounds aloft witli the celerity 
of Mil iirrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the 
hiust elevated strain." While thus exei-ting himself, a })y-sta,ndor, 
destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribe had 
assembled together, on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his 
utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He many times de- 
ceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that per- 
haps are not within miles of him, but whoso notes he exactly imi- 
tates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this 
adniiralile mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied call of their 
mates, or dive, with prccipit;ition, into the depths of thickets, at 
the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow hawk. 

The mocking bird loses httle of the power and energy of his 
song by confinement. In his domesticated state, \v\nm he com- 
mences his canserof song, it is im[)(»ssible to stand by uninterested. 
He wliistles fer tlie dog; (-aisar stai'ts up, wags his tail, and runs 
to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chickciii, aud the 



248 TKEASUFvES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

lieu hurries about Avitli liuiigiug "wings, uiid bristled feathers, chick- 
ing to protect its injured brood. The bruking of tlie dog, the mew- 
ing of the cat, the creaking of a passing wheelbarrow, follow 
witli great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by 
his master, tliough of considerable length, fully and fjiithfully. 
He runs over the quaverings of the canary, and the clear wliistlings 
of the Virginian nightingale, or red-bird, witli such superior execu- 
tion and elYect, that the mortitied songsters feel their own inferior- 
ity, and become alti\«iethcr silent; while he seems to triumph in 
tlieir defeat by redoubling his exertions. 

This excessive fondness for variety, hmvever, in the opinion of 
some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of tlie brown 
thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks; and 
the warblings of the blue-bird, which he exqiusitelj- maoaages, are 
mingled witli tJie screaming of swallows, or tJie cackling of hens; 
amidst the simple melody of the robin we are suddenly surprised 
by tlic shriU reiterations of tlie whip-poor-v ill ; while tlie notes of the 
kildeer, bluejay, martin, Baltimore, lUid twenty otliers, succeed with 
such imposing reality, that we look round for the originals, and dis- 
cover, witli astonishment, that tlie sole performer in this singular 
concert is the admirable bird now before us. During this exhibition 
of his powers he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws 
himself around the cage in all tlie ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming 
not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to tlie measure of his 
own music. Botli in his native ajid domesticated state, during the 
solemn stillness of night, as soon as the moon rises in silent maj- 
esty, he begins his delightful solo; and serenades us the hvelong 
night with a full ihsplay of his vocal powers, making the ^^hole 
neighborhood ring with his inimitable meiUey. 




WAIVrER SOOTT. 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 249 



WALTER SCOTT. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT was born in tlio city of Edinburgh 
on the 15th of August, 1T71. After an unusually 
busy and successful literary life, he died on the 21st of Sep- 
tember, 1832. The poet and novelist was well related and 
he came from good ancient Scottish families. Delicate; 
health, arising chieliy from lameness, led to his being placed 
under charge of some relations in the country. His early 
impressions from country life and Border stories, he received 
while residing with his grandfather at Sandy-Knowe, an ex- 
tremely romantic situation near Kelso. At an early age, he 
had tried his hand at verse with considerable success. lie 
passed through the High School and University of Edinburgh. 
Although he made some proficiency in Latin, and in classes 
of ethics, moral philosophy and history, " he had an aver- 
sion to Greek, and we may regret, with Lord Lytton, 'that 
he refused to enter into that chamber in the magic palace 
of literature in which the sublimest relics of antiquity arc 
stored.' " Being a great reader, he had gathered a vast 
variety of miscellaneous knowledge. Romances and stories 
were his chief delight. 

His earliest literary labors were translations. " In 1796, 
he published translations of Burger's Lenore and The Wild 
Huntsman, ballads of singular wildness and power." In 
1799, appeared his translation of Goethe's tragedy, Goetz 
von Derlkhingen. In 1799, he was appointed sheriff of Sel- 
kirkshire at a salary of iJ300 per annum. Scott now visited 



250 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

the country for the purpose of collecting the ballad poetry 
of Scotland. As a result, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border 
appeared in 1802. After other work of importance, his Lay 
of the Last Minstrel appeared in 1805, " which instantly 
stamped him as one of the greatest poets of the age." The 
tide of his popularity had now fully set in, and as of Burns, 
the people murmured of him from shore to shore. 

In 1808 appeared the great poem Marmion, and also his 
edition of Dryden. Lady of the Lake was published in 1810. 
In 1811, The Vision of Don Roderick ; in 1813, Rokehy, and 
Tlic Bridal of Triermain; 1814, The Lord of the Isles; 1815, 
The Field of Waterloo; and in 1817, Harold the Dauntless. 

"So early as 1805, before his great poems were produced, 
Scott had entered on the composition of Waverly, the first 
of his illustrious progeny of tales." Waverly appeared in 
1814, and was received with " unmingled applause." For 
fear that he would compromise his reputation as a poet, Scott 
did not prefix his name to the work. In 1815 appeared 
Guy Mannering; in 1816, The Antiquary, and also The Black 
Dwarf and Old Mortality. " The year 1818 witnessed two 
other coinages from Waverly mint, Rob Roy and The Heart 
of Mid-Lothian." The Bride of Lamniermoor, a story of sus- 
tained and overwhelming pathos, appeared in 1819. 

Ivanlioe, from which we have taken our selection, aj)- 
peared in 1820. For want of space, we must omit mention 
of Scott's other excellent works, and pass to a brief sketch 
of his life. 

He studied law, and was admitted to the bar at the age 
of twenty-one. He joined the Tory party, and became one 
of a band of volunteers to defend his country. After his 
first love disappointment, he was finally married to Char- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 251 

lotte Margaret Carpenter in 1797. " Miss Carpenter had 
some fortune and the young couple retired to a cottage at 
Lasswade, where they seem to have enjoyed sincere and un- 
alloyed happiness." 

The success of Scott's works gained for him a large for- 
tune. At a princely outlay, he purchased land and fitted up 
a home known now by the immortal name of Abbotsford. 
Princes, peers and poets — men of all grades — were his con- 
stant visitors. Failure of his publishers left him heavily in 
debt. In his old age, Scott undertook the task of paying a 
debt of i' 120,000. " The fountain was awakened from its 
inmost recess, as if the spirit of affliction had troubled it in 
his passage, " and before his death, the commercial debt was 
reduced to £54,000. 

" In six years, Scott had nearly reached the goal of his 
ambition. He had ranged the wide fields of romance, and 
the public had liberally rewarded their illustrious favorite. 
The ultimate prize was within view, and the world cheered 
him on, eagerly anticipating his triumph; but the victor 
sank exhausted on the course. He had spent his life in the 
struggle. The strong man was bowed down, and his living 
honor, genius, and integrity were extinguished by delirium 
and death. 

"About half past one, p. m.," says Mr. Lockhart, "on 
the 2l8t of September, 1832, Sir Walter breathed his last, 
in the presence of all his children. It was a beautWul day 
— so warm that every window was wide open — and so per- 
fectly still that the sound of all others most delicious to h'is 
ear, the gentle ripple of the Tweed over its pebbles, was dis- 
tinctly audible as we knelt around the bed, and his eldest son 
kissed and closed his eyes." 



TliEASURES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Rebecca's Description of the Siege. 

In the "Passage of Anns" on the memorable field of Ashby- 
de-la-Zouche, Ivauhoe, known as the disinherited knight, was 
named by Prince John as the champion of the day. Although the 
head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a 
woimd, yet he bore iip till he had been named Champion, and had 
received the Chaplet of Honor, from the Queen of Love and Beauty. 
Ivanhoe was taken to the castle commanded by the Templar Bois- 
Guill)ert and tlie Baron Front-de-Boeuf. While lodged witliin the 
castle, Ivanhoe's friends, imder the leadership of the Black Knight, 
advanced to the rescue. The rest is fully explained in the text, in 
the e<niversation between Kebecca and Ivsmhoe. But Ivanhoe was 
Hke the war-horse of that sublime passage, glowing with impationco 
at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affray 
of which these sounds were tlie introduction. "If I could but drag 
myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this 
brave game is like to go. If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or 
battle-axe to strike, were it but a single blow for our dehverance ! 
It is in vain — it is in vain — I am alike nerveless and weaponless. " 
"Fret not tliyself, noble knight," answered Rebecca, "the sounds 
have ceased of a sudden — it may be they join not battle." 

"Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfred, impatiently; "this 
dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the wallt*, 
and expecting an instant attack; what we have heard was but the dis- 
tant muttering of the storm — it will burst anon in all its fury. 
Could I but reach yonder window!" "Thou wilt but injure thyself 
by the attempt, noble knight," replied his attendant. Observing 
his extreme sohcitude, she firmly added, "I myself -wiU stand at the 
lattice, and describe to you as I can what passes without." 

"You must not — you sluiU not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "each lat- 
tice, each aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers; some ran- 
dom shaft — " "It shall be welcome!" muttered Rebecca, as with 



Ti;EASUiiES ri;oM the riiosE would. 2r,s 

firm pace she ascended two or three steps which led to tlie window of 
which they spoke. "Rebecca, dear Rebecca I" exclaimed Ivanhoe, 
"this is no maiden's pastime — do not expose thyself to wounds and 
death, and render me forever miserable for having given thee occa- 
sion; at least*, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show 
as little of your person iit the lattice as may be." Following Avith 
wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing her- 
self of the protection of the largo ancient shield, which she placed 
against the lower part of the window, Rebecca, with tolerable secu- 
rity to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the 
castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants 
were making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus 
obtained was peculiarly favorable for this purpose, because, being 
placed on an angle of the main building, Rebecca could not only 
see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also com- 
manded a view of the out-work likely to be the first object of the 
meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great 
height, or strength, intended to protect the postern -gate, through 
which Cedric had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The 
casLlc moat divided this species of barbican from the rest of the 
fortress, so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut oif 
the communication with the main building, by withdrawing the 
temporary bridge. In the out-work was a sally-port corresponding 
to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a 
strong palisade. Rebecca could observe from the number of men 
l)laced for the defence of this post, that the besieged entertained 
apprehension for its safety ; and from the mustering of the assail- 
ants in a direction nearly opposite to the out-work, it seemed no 
less plain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack. 
Tliese appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added. 
"The skirts of the wood seemed lined with archers, although only a 
few are advanced from its dark shadow." 

"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe. "Under no ensign of 
war which I can observe," answered Rebecca. 

"A singular novelty, " muttered the Knight, "to advance to storm 



254 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

such a ca&tle without pennon or banner displayed I Seest thou who 
they be that act as leaders? "A knight, clad in sable armor, is 
the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he jilone is armed from 
head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of aJl round him." 
"'What device docs he bear on his shield'?" inquired Ivanhoe. 

"Something resembling a bar of iron, and a padlock painted 
blue on the black shield." 

"A fetterlock and shackle-bolt azure," said Ivanhoe; "I know 
not who may boar the device, but well I ween it might now be mine 
own. Canst thou not see the motto?" 

"Scarce the device itself , at this distance," replied Rebecca; 
"but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell 
you." 

"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious inquirer. 
"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this station," 
said Rebecca, "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also 
assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance, — God of 
Zion, protect us! — What a dreadfid sight! — Those who advanced 
first bear huge shields, and defences made of plank; the others fol- 
low, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their bows! 
God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made ! " 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal 
fv>r assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at 
once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the bat- 
tlements, which mingled with the deep and hollow clang of the 
n;ikers (a si>ecies of kettle-drum,) retorted in notes of defiance 
the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented 
tlie fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry Eng- 
land!" and the Normans answering them with loud cries of "En- 
a rant lit' Braci/ ! — Beau st'aut ! — T^ront-ih'-Boeuf a la rescoufnif .'" ac- 
cording to the war cries of their different commanders. 

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be 
decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an 
equally vigorous defence on tlie part of the besieged. The archers, 
trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of tlie 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 255 

long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly 
together," that no point at which a defender could show the least 
part of his person escaped their cloth -yard shafts. By this heavy 
discharge, which continued as thick and sharp as hail, while, not- 
withstanding, eveiy arrow had its individual aim, and flew by 
scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, 
as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally 
had post, or miglit Ije suspected to be stationed, — by this sustained 
discharge, two or tliree of the garrison were slain, and several oth- 
ers wounded. But, confident in their armor of proof, and in the 
cover which tlieir situation afforded, the followers of Front-de- 
Boeuf, and his allies, showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned 
to the fury of the attack, and replied with the discharge of their 
large cross-bows as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other 
missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, 
as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected, did 
considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The 
whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only inter- 
rupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sus- 
tained some notable loss. 

"And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivan- 
hoe, "when the game that gives me freedom or death is played out 
by the hand of others ! — Look from the window once again, kind 
maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath ! 
Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." 
With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had 
employed in mental devotion, Kebecca again took post at the lat- 
tice, sheltering herself, however, so as not be visible from beneath. 
"What dost thou see, Rebecca?" again demanded the wounded 
knight. 

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle 
mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." 

"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right 
on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail 
but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight 
of the fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for 



250 TEEASUBES PKOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

as the leader is, so will liis followers be." "I see him not," said 
Rebecca. 

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the 
helm when the vnnd blows highest?" 

"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Eebecca, "I see him 
now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the 
barbican. They jduII down the piles and pahsades; they hew down 
the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over 
the throng, hke a raven over the field of the slain. They have 
made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! 
Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders, I see his gigantic form above 
the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is dis- 
puted hand to hand and man to man. God of Jacob ! it is the 
meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by 
adverse winds!" She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable 
longer to endure a sight so terrible. 

"Look forth again, Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the 
cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have 
ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, 
there is now less danger." 

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, 
"Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight 
fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of. their folloAvers 
who watch the progress of the strife — Heaven strike with the cause 
of the oppressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud 
shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down! he is down!" 

"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, tell 
me which has fallen?" 

"The Black Knight," answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly 
again shouted with joyful eagerness, "But no — but no! — the 
name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! — he is on foot again, and 
fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. 
His sword is broken — he snatches an ax from a yeoman — he 
presses Front-de-Boeuf \^dth blow on blow. The giant stoops and 
totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman. He falls — he 
faUsl" 



TREASUEES FEOM TPIE lEOSE WOELD. 257 

"Front-de-Boeuf ?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

"Front-de-Boeuf !" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the 
rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force com- 
pels the chamjjion to pause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within 
the walls." 

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said 
Ivanhoe. 

"They have — they have!" exclaimed Eebecca — "and they press 
the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some 
swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of 
each other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their 
heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men 
supply their places in the assault. Great God! hast thou given 
men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the 
hands of their brethren ! " 

"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such 
thoughts. — Who yield? who pixsh their way?" 

"The ladders are thrown down," replied Eebecca, shuddering; 
"the soldiers lie grovehng under them hke crushed reptiles. The 
besieged have the better. " 

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the Knight; "do the 
false yeomen give way?" 

"No!" exclaimed Piebecca, "they bear themselves right yeoman- 
ly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax — 
the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all 
the din and shouts of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed 
down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they 
were thistledown or feathers ! " 

"By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- 
fully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England 
that might do such a deed." 

"The postern gate shakes," continued Eebecca ; "it crashes — it 
is splintered by his blows — they rush in — the out-work is avou. 
Oh, God! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they 
throw them into the moat. men, if ye be indeed men, spare 
them that can resist no longer!" 

17 



258 TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

"The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — 
have they wou that pass?" exchiimed Ivanhoe. 

"No," rephcd Rebecca, "the Temjiliir lias destroyed the plank 
on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into 
the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, teU the fate of the 
others. Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon \'ictory 
than ujjon battle." 

"What do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet 
again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed," "It is over for the 
time," said Rebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the 
out- work which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a 
shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few 
bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than 
efifectuaUy to injure them." 

"Our friends," said Wilfred, "^vill surely not abandon an enter- 
prise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. Oh, no! I will 
put my faith in the good knight whose ax hath rent heart of 
oak and bars of iron, — singular," he again muttered to himself, 
"if there be two who can do a deed of such derriiuj — do! — a fetter- 
lock, and a shackle-bolt on a field sable— what may that mean — 
seest thou nought else, Rebecca, by which the Black Knight may be 
distinguished?" 

"Nothing," said tlie Jewess; "all about him is black as the 
wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him 
further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, 
methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He 
rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There 
is more than mere strength — there seems as if the whole soul and 
spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals 
upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of blood-shed! — 
it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of 
one man can triumph over hundreds." 

"Rebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast painted a hero; surely 
they rest \>\\i to refresli their force, or to provide the means of 
crossing the moat. Under such a leader as thou hast spoken tliis 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 259 

knight to be, there are no criivcn fears, no cold-blooded delays, no 
yielding up a gallant emprize ; since the difficulties which render it 
ardiu)us render it also glorious. I swear by the honor of my house 
— I vow l)y the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten 
years captivity to light one day by that good knight's side in such a 
quarrel as this ! " 

"Alas!" said Kebecca, leaving her station at the window, and 
approaching the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient 
yearning after action — this struggling with and repining at your 
present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning health. 
How couldst thou hoj)e to inflict wounds on others, ere that be 
healed which thyself hast received?" 

"Rebecca," ho replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is 
for one trained to actions of chivalry, to remain passive as a priest, 
or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him. 
The love of battle is the food upon which we live — the dust of the 
mellay is the breath of our nostrils I We live not — we wish not to 
live, longer than while we are victorious and renowned. Such, 
maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn and to 
which we offer all that we hold dear." 

"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, valiant knight, 
save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a pass- 
ing through the fire to Moloch? What remains to you as the prize 
of all the blood you have spilled — of all the travel and pain you 
have endured — of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when 
death hath broken the strong man's spear and overtaken the speed 
of his war-horse?" 

"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe. "Glory, maiden, glory! which 
gilds our sepulchre and embalms our name." 

"Glory?" continued Rebecca; "alas! is the ntsted mail which 
hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and moldering 
tomb — is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignor- 
ant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim — are these suf- 
ficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life 
spent miserably that ye may make others miserable? Or is there 



260 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

such virtue in tlie rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic 
love, kiudly affection, peace and happiness, are so widely bartered, 
to become the hero of those ballads which vagabond minstrels sing 
to drunken churls over their evening ale?" 



The Works of Creation. 

I was yesterday, about sunset, walking in the open fields, until 
the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all 
the richness and variety of colors which appeared in the western 
parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went cut, 
several st:irs and planets appeared one after another, until the whole 
firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceed- 
ingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and by 
the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy 
appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the 
full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes 
notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was 
more finely shaded and disposed among softer lights, than that 
which the sun had before discovered to us. 

As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and 
taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me 
which I believe very often pei-plexes me and disturbs mon of 
serious and contemplative nature. David himself fell into it in 
that reflection: "When I consider the heavens the work of thy lin- 
gers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is 
man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou 
regardest him?" In the same manner, when I considered that in- 
finite host of stars, or, to speak more pliilosophically, of suns, 
which were then shining upon me, Avith those innumerable sets of 
planets or world? which were moving round their respective suns — 
when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of 



TEEASURES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 2G1 

suns ancT worlds rising still above this which we discovered, and 
these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which 
arc planted at so great a distance that they may appear to the 
inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us — in short, while I 
pursued this thought I could not but reflect on that little insignifi- 
c;uit figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's 
works. 

Were the sun which enlightens this part of the creation, with 
all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extin- 
guished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain 
of sand upon the sea shore. The space they possess is so exceeding- 
ly little in comparison with the whole, that it would scarcely make a 
blank in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an 
eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from 
one end of the creation to the other; as it is possible there may be 
such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at 
present more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars by the 
help of glasses which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and 
the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. 

Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think 
it impossible there may be stars whose light has not yet traveled 
down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the 
universe has certain bounds set to it; but when we consider that it 
is the work of infinite power prompted by infinite goodness, with 
an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set 
any bounds to it? 

To return, therefore, to my first thought; I could not but look 
upon myself with secret horror as a being that was not worth the 
smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and 
supcrintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the 
immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of crea- 
tures whicli in all probability swarm through all these immeasur- 
able regions of matter. 

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I 
considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions which 



262 TKEASUKES FKOM THE IVUOSE AYOllLD. 

>vo aiY apt to ontortain of tho divine nature. We ourselves eaamtt 
attend to many ditlerent objects at tho saiuo time. If we are eare- 
ful to inspect some thins^s, \ve must of course ne^rleet others. This 
imperfeeiion wliieh "wo obsorvo in ourselves is lui imperfection that 
cleaves in some ilegree to creatures of tlio highest capacities, as they 
are creatures; that is, beings of linite and hmited natures. The 
presence of every createil being is conthied to a. certain measure oi 
space, and conseipunitly his observation is stinted to a certain num- 
ber oi objects. Tlie sphere in which we move, and act, and under- 
stand, is of a wiibu" circumference to one creature tJian another, 
according as we rise one abme another in the soaJo of existence. 
But the widest of these, our spheres, has its circumference. 
When, therefore, we reflect on tlie divine nature, we are so used 
and accustomed to tliis imperfection in ourselves, tJiat we cannot 
forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom tJiere is no 
shadow i>f imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us that his 
attributes are intinite, but the poorness of our conceptions is such, 
tliat it cannot forbear setting bounds to evorytliing it ci>ntemplates. 
mitil our reason comes again to our succor, and throws down all 
those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to 
tlie mind of num. 

We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this nu^lancholy thought 
of our being overlooked by our ^laker, in the multiplicity of his 
wiu-ks and the inlinity of those objects among wliich he seems to 
be iucessantJy employed, if we consider, in tlio tirst place, that he 
is omnipresent; and in the second, that he is omniscient. 

If we consiiler him in his omnipresence, his being passes 
through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His 
creation, aiul every part of it, is fidl i>f him. There is ni>thing he 
has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, 
which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within tJie 
substance of every being, whetJier material or immaterial, and as 
intimately pi"esent to it as tliat being is to itself. It would be an 
imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into 
another, or to withdraw himself fnnu aaiytliiug he has created, or 



TREASUllEH FllOM THK J'KOHK WOllIiD. 203 

from any part of tliaL Hpacc which ih (hfTuRod and Hpniad ahroarl l,o 
infinity. In wliori, to H|)<;ak of him in tli(! Jaii;.niii,(^'(! of tlio old plii- 
loHophcr, he in a hcinj.^ wIioho contcsr in (ivorywlion!, and Jiis (;in;inM- 
fercnco nowhere. 

In tlio Hccond [daco, lio \h omniHcicnt as well hh onuiiproHont. 
Ills omniHcionco, indeed, necesHarily and naturally llowH fioni liin 
oninipresence; he cannot hut 1)0 conHcioim of every motion t,li;it 
arisen in the whole material world, which he thim eHKentiully per- 
vadeH, !i,tid of ev(!ry thoii;.^lit iliiit In Htrivinf,' in th<! ijitcdiectrial 
world, to every part of which Ik; in thuH intinnitely united. Sev- 
eral raoraliHta have conbidered the cniation as the temple of flod, 
wliicli he haH l)ui]t with his own )i;i.ndH, and wliich in filled with liiw 
pr(iH(;n(;(!. OtherH hiive conKidercd iniinite Hjiace an the rcccpi.;i,cl<:, 
or rather tlie liabitjiiion, of tin! Alniij^dity. I5iil, tin: nolilci;!, ;mii| 
moHt exalted way of connideritif-j thin infinite Hpace in that of Sir 
Isaac Newton, who callH it the Hennorium of the Clodheiul. HrutoH 
and men have their sensoriola, or little scnHoriumH, by wliidi tiny 
apprehend the prcHonce Jind perceive the actifuiH of a few objectH 
that lie contif^uouH to them, 'i'heir knowledge and o])Herv!i,tion turn 
within a very narrow circle. iJut as God Almif^hty cannot l>iit, per- 
ceive and know everything,' in whicli he reHidew, infinite Hpa(;e giv(;H 
room to infinite knowledge, and Ih, a« it were, an organ to omniw- 
cience. 

Were the soul neparate from the body, and with one glanc;*; of 
thought should start heyond the hounds of the creation — should it 
for millions of years continue its prognjss tliroiigli infinite npace 
with the same activity — it wcjuld still find itself witliin the enil)r;i,ce 
of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensily of the 
Godhead. Whih; we an; in hody, he is not less pnisent with us 
because he is concealed from us. "Oh, that I knew where I might 
find him I" says Job. "Behold I go forw;u-d, hut he in not f,here; 
and backward, but I cannot perceive him; on the left hiind where 
ho do(;s work, but I cannot be-hold him; he hid(;th himself on the 
right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as well as 
revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwith- 
Btanding he is undiBcovered by us. 



2t)l TllEASURES FROM THE TKOSE WOULD. 

In the cousidonitiou of God vUmighty's omuiprcsouco and oui- 
luscicuco, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. Ho cannot but 
regard ovorything thnt has being, ospocially such of his creatures 
who fear they are not, regarded by hiui. lie is privy to all their 
tlioughts, and to iluit anxiety of heart in particular whieh is npt to 
trouble them on this occasion; for as it is inipi)ssibl(> he should 
overUH>k any of his creatures, so wo may bo conlldent that ho re- 
gards with an eye of moroy those who endeavor to recommend 
themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humility of heart 
thiidi themselves unworthy that ho shoidd bo mimU'ul of tliem. 



We have just religion enough to make us hate, but not enough 
to niiike us love one another. 



When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on 
the good aide or circumstances of it; when it is obtained, our mind 
runs only on the bad ones. 



When a true genius np{)eareth in the world, you may know 
him by this infallible sign, that tlio dunces are all in confederacy 
against him. 



T aui apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will be 
small idlowanco given to Uio wise for their want of morals, or to 
tlio ignorant for tlieir want of faith, because both are without ex- 
cuse; this renders the adviintages ocpuvl of ignorance and kmnvl- 
edgo. But some scruples in the wise, and some vices in the igno- 
rant, will perhaps be forgivou upon tlie strengtli of temptation to 
each. • 




HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 



TEEASUKES FEOM THE PliOSE WORLD. 205 



HARRIET BEECHER STOVSTIl. 



HARRIET ELIZABETH BEECHER STOWE was born in 
Litchfield, Conn,, June 15, 1812. Her father was Dr. 
Lyman Beeclier, a distinguished clergyman. In 1833, with 
her father, she removed to Cincinnati, where, in 1836, she 
was married to the Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, who afterward 
became professor at Bowdoin College and at Andover The- 
ological School. 

Several stories which she had written for the Cincin- 
nati Gazette and other periodicals, were collected and pub- 
lished in a volume entitled The Mayjlower. In 1851, she 
commenced Uncle Toiiis Cabin, in the Washington National 
Era. The story was afterward published in Boston in two 
volumes. " Its success was without a parallel in the litera- 
ture of any age. Nearly half a million copies were sold in 
this country, and a considerably larger number in England. 
It was translated into every language of Europe, and into 
Arabic and Armenian. It was dramatized and acted in nearly 
every theater in the world." In 1853 she visited Europe 
and was received with gratifying attention. Sunny Memories 
of Foreign Lands was published upon her return from Eu- 
rope. In 1856 appeared Dred, a Tale of the Great Dismal 
Swam,}). This work produced but a slight impression. The 
success of Uncle Tonis Cabin probably removed the charm 
of novelty in the subject of her new story. The Minister's 
Wooing appeared in book form in 1859. Agnes of Sorrento 
and The Pearl of Orr's Island were published in 1862 ; House 



266 TllEASUltES PllOM THE THOSE WOULD. 

a7u{ TTome Papers, in 1804; The Cliimnetf Corner, in 18G5; 
Little Foxes, 18(15; Queer Little People, 1807; 01 ilto ten Folks, 
1809; Pink and yVhite Tuniuni/, 1871; ^f|/ Wife andl, 1872. 
PiobaMy the groat niistako in lior litorary work was made in 
publishing True Stori) of Ladt/ Jyi/ron's Life. U true it should 
not have been told, but the story is thought not to be true. 

Mrs. Stowe has written very extensively, and her pub- 
lished works entitle hor to a place among the greatest au- 
thors of liction. While her fame rests upon her first great 
book, yet all of her works contain excellent qualities. Ilor 
giniiua is rare and original. For several years, she has spent 
the greater part of her time in her Florida homo, in com- 
pany with her husband and daughters. 

It is customary with most authors to classify female 
writers as the wife or sister, or some other relative of some 
man. Mrs. Stowe, however, needs not the name of her 
husband, nor the world-wide fame of the Beechers, to give 
hor a place in the front ranks of literature. The world 
knows her as well as it knows her relatives, and its admira- 
tion for her is richly merited. 




TEEASUEES FEOM THE niOSE WOULD. 207 



Little Eva. 

Her form was the perfection of childish beauty, without its 
usual chul)biness unci squareness of outline. There was about it an 
undulating and aerial grace such as one might dream of for some 
mythical and allegorical being. Iler face was remarkable, less for 
it:-) perfect beauty of feature than for a singular and dreamy ear- 
nestness of expression, which made the ideal start when they looked 
at her, and by which the dullest and most literal were impressed, 
without exactly knowing why. The shape of her Iiead and the 
turn of her neck and bust were peculiarly noble, and the long, 
golden-brown hair tliat floated like a cloud around it, the deep, 
spiritual gravity of her violet-blue eyes, shaded by heavy fringes of 
golden-brown — all marked her out from other children, and made 
every one turn and look after her, as she gUded hither and thither 
on the boat. Nevertheless, the little one was not what you would 
have called either a grave child or a sad one. On the contrary, an 
airy and innocent playfulness seemed to flicker like the shadow of 
Summer leaves over her childish face, and around her buoyant fig- 
ure. She was always in motion, always with half a smile on her 
rosy mouth, flying hither and thither, -with an undulating iuid 
cloud-like tread, singing to herself as she moved as in a happy dream. 
Her father and female guardian were incessantly busy in pursuit of 
her — but, when caught, she melted from them again like a Sum- 
}uer cloud; and as no word of chiding or reproof ever fell on hor 
ear for whatever she chose to do, she pursued her own way all over 
the boat. Always dressed in white, she seemed to move like a 
shadow through all sorts of places, without contracting spot or 
stain; and there was not a corner or nook, above or below, where 
those fairy footsteps had not gUded, and that visionary golden 
head, with its deep blue eyes, fleeted along. 

The fireman, as he looked up from his sweaty toil, sometimes 
found those eyes looking wondcringly into the raging depths of the 



2l>8 TUKASrHKS I'KOM lUE PROSE WORLD. 

flvn)!U'i\ :uul tVavfulIy iiuil pityiujrly :it him, ;is it sho tluMijiht lun\ 
in somo dromiful ilrtu-nM-. Anon (ho stotM-siu;u\ at tho whool pausoil 
luul smiliHl. as tho [uotniv-hko hoaJ gloaiuod through tho window 
of tho round houso, ami in a nu>uuMit was gouo again. A thousand 
tinu\s a day nuigh voioos Mossod hor. and smilos of unwonted soft- 
noss stoU> ovor hard faoovs as slu^ passod; and whon vsho tripped 
t'oarU\^sly ovor dangonnis plaoos. i\n\gh, sooty hands woro stivtohod 
invidunts'irily out io save hor. and sniootli hor path. 

Tom, who liad tho soft, impivssihh> natui-e of his kindly n\oo, 
over yearning towanls tho simple and child-like, watohod the little 
civatmv with daily inoro.-ising intoivst. To him sho soemed some- 
thing almost divine; and whonovor hor golden head and deep hlue 
eyes peennl out upim hiin from behind some dusky oottou-hale, or 
loi^kod dowti upon liim over some ridge of packages, ho half be- 
lieved he saw one of tlie luigels stepped out of tho Now Tost^imeiit. 



Uncle Tom Reads His Testament 

Is it stniugo. then, thai some tears fall on tho pages of his 
nible as ho lays it lui the ootton-balo. and with patient finger 
tUivading his sKnv way from wonl to woul. traces ovit its pnnnises? 
1 Living learned late in life, Tom was but a slow ivader, aiid passed 
iU\ Irtboriously fnnu verso to verso. Fortunate for him wjvs it tlia.t 
the biH^k he was intent on was one which slow n\»ding cuuiot 
iujuix^— nay, one whoso wonls. like ingots of gold seem oftvu to 
iuhhI tv> be weighed sepsvnu^'ly, tlirtt the mind may fe^ke in their 
priceless vjiluo. l.et us follow him a moment, as, pointing to e;ich 
vvoixl, auvl pivnovuicing each half aloud, he ivads,— 

"Let — not — your — hejvrt — bo — tnniblod. In -my — Fatlier's— 
houso — rtxe — uiAAy — ma nsion s. I — go — to p ivpa iv — ji — place — 
for — you." 

Ciceiv, when ho buried his darling and only daughter, had rt 
lieart as full of honest grief as poor Tom's- perhaps no fuller, for 



TUMAHIIIIKH l'"JU)M Till'] VlMHl) W()Ul.i>. 



209 



both wovo only mvu; but, Cicero coubl piniHo over no Hiich Hiil)litno 
wohIh of liopo, imd ]o()k(ul l,o no Hiicb fiiiiiro ronnion; luid if lio 
liiid seen iJiciii, licii l.o uiio bo would iiol, bavo Ixiliiivcd, lie iruiHt 
lill hi;; bciid CiihI; vvJlJi a. lJi()iiHa.iid ([IK^sUoiis of iiiiiJuiiiticiLy ol' iiiiuni- 
sci'ipi., and corroctiHU-iH of trajiHhil.ioii. Ibil,, io j)oor Tom, tbcro it 
Liy, jiiHt wliat li(! iiccdcul, ho (ivitUiiitly triio luid diviiio tliaJ, tbo poH- 
Hil)ibl,y of a, ([iK'sdioii iicvor ontorcd liirt Hitnpio bead. It ninnt bo 
true, fur, if not line, bow coubl ho livo? 

As for Toid'h Ibbbi, iJiotiL^li it bad no n-iiiiotaJjoiiH a.iid bclpH in 
th(^ mai'i^iji from brained coniiii(!iita.t(trM, Ktill it bad been cmbclliHbcd 
with cortnin \va.y-ma/il<H and j^niiibi-ljoardM of Toiii'm own invention, 
jind wliicb li(']p(ul liim moro tba,n tbo nioHt icai-ncd cxpositionH 
coidd ba.vo dono. It liad Jiccmi liis cimtom to f^'(!t tb(! Ibbbi rca,d to 
liiiii by liis iiiar.^rr'K cliiidrcn, in |»,irlb'Mla,r by yoini;^ Ma.Ht('r 
(i(!or;.;<'. ; and an tbcy read, bo woidd dcHij^'na^bi, l»y bokl, Htrong 
nmrk M,nd danboM, wiLli |t<ii and ird(, tlio ])a-Hna<j('H wbicli more piir- 
ticn]a,rly jM^alilicd biw car or aJTcclcd bin bi art. IFi.s I'ilibi wa,H tliiiH 
niarlasd tlir(>ii;;li, from oiio end to tbe olJicr, witii a, vajioty of ntylcH 
and doHi;j;nationH, ho bo coidd in a, monicnl, Hcizo n])oii liiw bivorito 
paHHMi^os, witliorit tbo ]a,l)or of HpolJiii;^' out wba,t lay bctwoon tlu^iri; 
and wbil(( it lay then! bcfoni bini, ov(!ry paHHa;^() br(!a.tliin;^ of Homo 
old lionic Hcenc, a,nd rccaUinf^ Homo ])aHt onjoymcnf, liin Iiil)lo 
hoouhmI to biiM all of IJiio lib' iJia.l icniaiiicd, aH well an Ibo promino 
of a. fiit.iin! one. 




'270 TBEASUEES l-llOU THE PROSE AYORLP. 



Pledge VVith ^Vine. 

"rioilgo with wino — plodgo "svitJi Aviiio!" cried the younp: aiul 
tlunighUoss lliirry "Wood. "Tlodgo Avith wine," ran thvongh the 
brilliant ci-owd. 

Tho Loantiful Inido grow palo — tlio docisivo hour had oouio, — 
sho prossod hor white hands together, and tlio leaves of her bridal 
wreath trembled on her {uue brow; her breath eame quieker, her 
heart boat wilder. From her ehildhood she had been most solemn- 
ly i^pposed to tho use of all wines and liquors. 

" Yes, Marion, lay aside your scruples for this once," said tlie 
Judge, in a low tone, going toward his daughter, "tlie company 
expect it; do not so seriously infringe upon the rules of etiquette; 
in your own house act as you please; but in mine, for this once 
please me." 

Every eye was turned toward tlie bridal pair. Marion's prin- 
ciples were well known. Henry had been a convivialist, but of 
late his friends noticed the change in his manners, tlie difference 
in his habits — and to-night they watched lum to see, as they sneer- 
ingly said, if he was tied down to a woman's opinion so soon. 

Pouring a brimming beaker, they held it with tempting smiles 
toward AEariou. She w-»is very pale, tliougli more composed, and 
her hand shook not, as smiling back, gratefidly accepted tho crystal 
tei\ipter and i-aised it to lier lips. But scarcely had she done so 
when every hand was arrested by her pioi-cing excliuuatiou of "Oh, 
how terrible!" 

"What is it?" cried one and all, thronging together, for she 
had slowly carried the glass at arm's length, and was fixedly regard- 
ing it as though it were some liideous object. 

"W^iit," she answered, while an inspinnl light slione from her 
dark eyes, "wait ami I will tell you. I see." she added, slowly 
pointing one jewelled tinger at the sparkling ruby liquid, " a sight 
tliat beggai-s all description; and yet listen: I will paint it for yon 
if I can : It is a lonely spot; tall mountains, civwned with verdui-e, 



TREAHTTRES FROM THR PROSE WORLD. 271 

rise in awful subliuiily around; a river runs through, and luight 
flowerH grow to tho water's edge. There in a tliick, warm niiBt 
that tlic Hun HCeks vainly to picvrco; trooH, lofty iuid Ix'MutifuI, wavo 
to tho airy motions of tin; l)irds; ])nt tlioro m, grouj) of Indiiuis gather; 
tli(!y Hit to Hiid fro wiili Koiiiotliiiig like; Horrow u])oii ilicir dark 
bnnvH; and in tlieir niidnt lioH a manly form, hut hin cliook, how 
deathly; his cyo wild with the fitfid 11 f(; of fover. Om; friend standH 
beside him, nay, I should B;iy kneels, for ho is pillowing tliat poor 
head upon his broast. 

" (^i(!iiius in ruins. Oli! tiu; higli, holy lookijig brow I Why 
should d(!!i,th miU'k it, and ho so young? Look how ho throws tho 
damp curls I scQ him clasp his hands! hoar his thrilling shrieks 
for life! mark how ho clutohos at tho form of his companio)i, im- 
j)loring to bo saved. Oh I hour him eall ])it(!OUH]y his hither's 
name; seo him twine his lingers together as ho shrieks for his sis- 
ter — his only sister — tho twin of his soul — weeping for him in his 
distant ruitive land. 

"Seel" she exclaimed, whih; tlu; hiidiil j)iU'iy shnuik hack, tho 
untastcd wino tn'mbling in their ffiJteriiig grasp, and the Judge 
foil, overpow<!red, upon his seat; "see! his arms uro lifted to 
heaven; ho prays, how wildly, for mercy! hot fover rushe's through 
his veins. Tho friend beside him is weeping; awe-stricken, tho 
dark men move silently, and lo!i,ve the living and dying togotlier." 

There was a hush in that princely ])ajlor, broken only by what 
seemed a stnothered sol), from some manly bosom. The bride 
stood yet upright, with quivering hp, and tears stealing to the out- 
ward edge of her lashes. Her l)cautiful arm had lost its tension, 
and tho glass, with its little, trou])led red waves, came slowly to- 
ward tho range of her vision. Hhe spoke again; every lip was 
mute. Her voice was low, faint, yet awfully distinct: she still fixed 
her sorrowful glance ui)on the wino cup. 

" It is evening now; the greji,t white moon is coming up, and 
her beams lay gently on his forehead. Il(; mov(!S not; his eyes are 
set in tluiir sockets; dim are tlmir piercing glances; in vain his 
friend whispers the name of father and sister — death is there. 



272 TREASUEES FEOM TPIE PEOSE WOELD. 

Death ! and no soft hand, no gentle voice to bless and soothe him. 
His head sinks back! one convulsive shudder! he is dead!" 

A groan ran through the assembly, so vivid was her descrip- 
tion, so unearthly her look, so inspired her manner, that what she 
described seemed actually to have taken place then and there. 
They noticed, also, that the bridegroom hid his face in his hands 
and was weeping. 

"Dead!" she repeated again, her lips quivering faster and 
faster, and her voice more and more broken : "and there they scoop 
him a grave ; and there without a shroud, they lay him down in 
the damp, reeldng earth. The only son of a proud father, the only 
idolized brother of a fond sister. And he sleeps to-day in that dis- 
tant country, with no stone to mark the spot. There he lies — my 
father's son — my own twin brother! a victim to this deadly poison. 
Father," she exclaimed, turning suddenly, while the tears rained 
down her beautiful cheeks, " father, shall I drink it now?" 

The form of the old Judge was convidsed with agony. He 
raised his head, but in a smothered voice he faltered — "No, no, my 
child, in God's name, no." 

She lifted the glittering goblet, and letting it suddenly fall to 
the floor it was dashed into a thousand pieces. Many a tearful eye 
watched her movements, and instantaneouslj'^ every wine glass was 
transferred to the marble table on which it had been prepared. 
Then as she looked at the fragments of crystal, she turned to the 
company, saying, " Let no friend, hereafter, who loves me, tempt 
me to peril my soul for wine. Not firmer the everlasting hills 
than my resolve, God helping me, never to touch or taste that ter- 
rible poison. And he to whom I have given my hand ; who watched 
over my brother's dying form in that last solemn hour, and buried 
the dear wanderer there by the river in that land of gold, will, I 
trust, sustain me in that resolve. Will you not, my husband?" 

His gUstening eyes, his sad sweet smile, was her answer. 

The Judge left the room, and when an hour later he returned, 
and with a more subdued manner took part in the entertainment of 
the bridal guests, no one could fail to read that he, too, had deter- 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 273 

mined to dash the enemy at once and forever from his princely 
rooms. 

Those who were present at that wedding can never forget the 
impression so solemnly made. Many from that hour foreswore the 
social glass. 



The Two Races of Men. 

The human species, according to the hest theory I can form of 
it, is composed of two distinct races, the men who borrow, and the 
men who lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced 
all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, 
white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth, 
"Parthians, and Medes, and Elamites," flock hither, and do natu- 
rally fall in the one or the other of these primary distinctions. 
The infinite superiority of the former, which I -choose to designate 
as the great race, is discernable in their figure, port, and a certain 
instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born degraded. 

"He shall serve his brethren." There is something in the 
air of one of this cast, lean and suspicious ; contrasting with the 
open, trusting, generous manners of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages — 
Alcibiades — Falstaff — Sir Richard Steele — our late incomparable 
Brinsley — what a family likeness in all four! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower! what 
rosy gills ! what a beautiful rehance on Providence doth he mani- 
fest — taking no more thought than lilies! "What contempt for 
money, — accounting it (yours and mine, especially,) no better than 
dross ! What a Hberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions of 
meuni and tuuni I or rather, what a noble simphfication of language 
(beyond Tooke) resolving these supposed opposites into one clear, 
intelligible pronoun adjective !^ — What near approaches doth he 
make to the primitive community, — to the extent of one -half of the 
principle, at least. 
18 



27i TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Ho is the true taxcr who "calleth all the woiid up to be taxed;" 
aud the distance is as vast between him and one of us, as subsisted 
between the Augiistan Majesty and the poorest obolaiy Jew that 
paid it tribute pittance at Jornsalcm! His exactions, too, have 
such a cheerful, voluntary air! So far removed from your sour 
parochial or State gatlierors, — those ink horn varlets, who carry their 
want of wolcouie in their faces! He cometh to you with a smile, 
and troubleth you with no receipt; confiuing himself to no set sea- 
son. Every day is his candlemas, or his Feast of Holy Michael. 
He applieth the Irnc torwoKuin of a pleasant look to yoiir purse, — 
which to that gentle warmth expands her silken leaves, as naturally 
as tlie cloak of the traveler, for which sun and wind contended ! He 
is the true Propontic which never ebbeth ! The sea which taketh 
handsomely at each man's hand. In vain the \-ictim, whom he 
dolighteth to honor, struggles with destiny; he is in the net. Lend, 
therefore, cheerfully; man ordained to lend — that thou lose not 
in the end, with thy worldly penny, tlie reversion promised. Com- 
bine not preposterously in tliine oaati person the penalties of Laza- 
rus and of Dives! but, when thou seest the proper authority com- 
ing, meet it smihngly, as it were half way. Come, a handsome 
sacrifice I See how light /<<■ makes of it! Strain not courtesies 
with a noble enemy. 

Eeflections hke the foregoing wore forced upon my mind by 
the death of my old friend, Kalph Bigod, Esq., who parted this 
life on "Wednesday evening; dying, as he had hved, without much 
trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors 
of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in tliis realm. 
In his actions and sentiments he behed not the stock to which he 
pretended. Early in hfe he found himself invested vrith ample 
revenues; which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have 
noticed as inherent in men of the <//(<// ract-, he took almost imme- 
diate measiu'os entirely to dissipate and bring to notliing; for there 
is something revolting in the idea of a Idng holding a private purse ; 
and tlie thoughts of Bigod were aU regal. Thus furnished by the 
very act of disfurnishment; getting rid of the cumbersome luggage 



TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 275 

of riches, more apt (as ouc siiig) to slacken virtue, and abate her 
edge — thau i)rompt her to do aught may merit praise — he set forth, 
hke some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, "borrowing and to 
borrow!" 

In his pereigesis, or triumphant progress throughout this 
island, it has l)een calcniated that he laid a tithe part of the inhal)- 
itants under contribution. I nsject this estimate as greatly exag- 
gerated; but having the honor of accompanying my friend divers 
times, in his perambulations about this vast city, I own I was 
greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of faces we met, 
who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with us. He was 
one day so obliging as to explain the phenomenon. It seems, these 
were his tributaries; feeders of his exchequer; gentlemen, his good 
friends (as he was pleased to express himself) to whom he had oc- 
casioiuilly been beholden for a loan. Their multitudes did no way 
disconcert him. He rather took a pride in numbering them ; and 
with Comus, seemed pleased to be "stocked with so fair a herd." 
With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep his 
treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, which 
he had often in his mouth, that "money kept longer than three 
days, stinks." So ho made use of it while it was fresh. A good 
part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot) ; some he 
gave away, the rest he threw away, hterally- tossing and hurling it 
violently from him — as boys do burrs, or as if it had been infec- 
tious, — into ponds, or ditches, or deep holes, inscrutable cavities of 
the earth; or he would bury it (where he would never seek it again) 
by a river's side' under some bank, which (he would facetiously ob- 
serve) paid no interest — but out away from him it must go jjcrcmp- 
torily, as Hagar's ofl'spring into the wilderness, while it was sweet. 
He never missed it. The streams were perennial which fed his fisc. 
When new supplies became necessary, the first person that had the 
felicity to fall in with him, friend or stranger, was sure to contrib- 
ute to the deficiency. For Bigod had an imdeniable way with him. 
He had a cheerful, open exterior, a quick jovial eye, a bald forehead, 
just touched with gray {cana fulcs) . 



276 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

He anticipated no excuse and found none. And, waiving for a 
while my theory as to the (/reat rave, I would put it to the most un- 
theorizing reader, wlio may at times have disposable coin in his 
pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the liindliness of hia 
nature to refuse such a one as I am describing, than to say wo to a 
poor petitionary rogue (your bastard borrower,) who, by his mump- 
ing visnomy, tells you that he expects nothing better; and, there- 
fore, whose preconceived notions and expectations you do in reality 
so much less shock in the refusal. 

When I think of this man ; his fiery glow of heart, his swell 
of feehng; how magnificent, how /(/ca/ he was; how great at the 
midnight hour; and when I compare with him the companions wth 
whom I have associated since, I grudge the saving of a few idle 
ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of Icmh'rs and 
little men. 

To one hke Eha, whose treasures are rather cased in leather 
covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a class of alienators more 
formidable than that which I have touched upon; I mean your bor- 
roiri'ra of hooks — those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the 
svnimeti-y of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Com- 
berbatch, matcliless in his depredations ! 

That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, hke a great eye- 
tooth knocked out — (you are now with me in my little back study 
in Bloomsbury, reader!) — with the huge Swdtzer-like tomes on each 
side (like the Guildhall giants, in tlieir reformed posture, guardant 
of nothing) once held the tallest of my fohos, Opera Boi>are)itume, 
choice and massy divinity, to which its two supporters (school divin- 
ity also, but of a lesser cahber, — BeUarmine, and Holy Thomas,) — 
showed but as dwarfs, — itself an Ascapart! — that Comberbatch 
abstracted upon the faith of a theory he holds, which is more easy, 
I confess, for me to suffer by than to refute, namely, that "the title 
to property in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance,) is in exact 
ratio to the claimant's powers of imderstanding and appreciating 
the same." Should he go on acting upon tliis theory, which of our 
shelves is safe? 



TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 277 

The slight vaciium in the left hand case — two shelves from the 
ceihng — scarcely distinguishable but by the quick eye of a loser- 
was whilom the commodious resting place of Brown on Urn Burial. 
C. will hardly allege tliat he knows more about that treatise than I 
do, who introduced it to him, and was indeed, the first (of the mod- 
erns) to discover its beauties — -but so have I known a foolish lover 
to praise his mistress in the presence of a rival more qualified to 
carry her off than himself. Just below, Dodsley's dramas want 
their fourth volume, where Vittoria Corombona is. The remaining 
nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse sons, when the Fates bor- 
roired Hector. Here stood the Anatomy of Melancholy, in syber 
state. There loitered the Complete Angler, quiet as in life, by 
some stream side. In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower- 
volume, with "eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate. 

One justice I must do my friend, that if he sometimes, like 
the sea, sweeps away a treasure, at another time, sea-like, he throws 
up as rich an equivalent to match it. I have a small under-collec- 
tion of this nature (my friend's gatherings in his various calls), 
picked up, he has forgotten at what odd jjlaces, and deposited with 
as little memory at mine. I take in these orphans, the twice de- 
serted. These proselytes of the gate are welcome as the true He- 
brews. There they stand in conjunction, natives, and naturalized. 
The latter seem as little disposed to inquire out their true lineage 
as I am. I charge no warehouse-room for these deodands, nor 
shall ever put myself to the ungentlemanly trouble of advertising a 
sale of them to pay expenses. 

To lose a volume to C. carries some sense and meaning in it. 
You are sure that he will make one hearty meal on your viands, if 
he can give no account of the platter after it. But what moved 
thee, wayward, spiteful K., to be so importune to carry off with 
thcc, in spite of tears and adjurations to thee to forbear, the Letters 
of that princely woman, the thrice noble Margaret Newcastle? — 
knowing at the time, and knowing that I knew also, thou most 
assuredly wouldst never turn over one leaf of the illustrious folio ; 
what but the mere spirit of contradiction, and childish love of get- 



278 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOBLD. 

ting the better of thy friend? Then, worst cut of all! to transport 
it ^^ith thee to the GaUicau land. Unworthy land to harbor such a 
sweetness. A virtue in which all ennobhug thoughts dwelt. 

Pure thoughts, kind thoughts, high thoughts, her sex's won- 
der 1 

Hadst thou not thy play-books, and books of jests and fancies, 
about thee, to keep thee merry, even as thoii keej)est all companies 
with thy quips and mirthful tales? Child of the Green-room, it 
was unkindly done of thee. Thy wife, too, that part French, bet- 
ter part English woman ! — that she could fix upon no other treatise 
to bsar away, in kindly token of remembering us, than the works 
of Fulke Greville, Lord Brook — of which no Frenchman, nor 
woman of France, Italy, or England, was ever by nature consti- 
tuted to comprehend a title ! Was tJiere not ^^ Zimmerman on Soli- 
tuder 

Eeader, if haply thou art blessed with a moderate collection, 
be shy of showing it; or if thy heart overfloweth to lend them, 
lend thy books; but let it be to such a one as S. T. C- he will, 
return them (generally anticipating the time appointed) withi;suiy; 
enriched with annotations tripling their value. I have had experi- 
ence. Many are these precious MSS, of his — (in matter oftentimes, 
and almost, in quantitij, not unfrequently, vpug with the originals) 
in no very clerkly hand legible in my Daniel ; in old Burton ; in Sir 
Thomas Browne; and those abstruser cogitations of the Greville, 
now, alas! wandering in Pagan lands. I counsel thee, shut not 
thy heart, nor thy Hbrary, against S. T. C. 




TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOEIiD. 279 



Studies. 

Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their 
chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is 
in discourse ; and for ability, is in the judgment and disposition of 
business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of, partic- 
ulars, one by one; but the general councils, and the plots and mar- 
shaUing of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To 
spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for 
ornament, is affectation; to make judgment wholly by their rules, 
is the humor of* a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected 
by experience — for natural abihties are like natural plants, that 
need pruning by study; and studies themselves do give forth direc- 
tions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. 
Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise 
men use them; for they teach not their own use; but that is a wis- 
dom without them, and above them, won by observation. Bead 
not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, 
nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some 
books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be 
chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in 
parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be 
read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also 
may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but 
that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner 
sort of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, 
flashy things. Beading maketh a fuU man, conference a ready 
man, and writing an exact man ; and therefore if a man write little, 
he had need have a great memory; if he confer httle, he had need 
have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much 
cunning to seem to know that he doth not. 



280 TREASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 



Of Beauty. 

Virtue is like a rich stoue, best plain set; and surely virtue is 
best in a body that is comely, though not of delicate features, and 
that hath rather dignity of presence than beauty of aspect ; neither 
is it always seen, that very beautiful persons are otlierwise of great 
virtue ; as if nature were rather busy not to err, than in labor to 
produce excellency ; and therefore they prove accomplished, but not 
of great spirit; and study rather behavior than virtue. But tliis 
holds not always; for Augustus Ca>sar, Titus Yespasianus, Philip Ic 
Bel of France, Edward lY of England, Alcibiades of Athens, 
Ismael, the sophi of Persia, were all high and great spirits, and 
yet the most beautifid men of their times. In beauty, that of 
favor is more than that of color; and that of decent and gracious 
motion more than that of favor. That is the best part of beauty 
which a picture cannot express; no, nor the first sight of the life. 
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the 
proportion. A man cannot tell whetlier Appelles or Albert Durer 
Avere the more triflcr; whereof one would make a personage by 
geometrical proportions; the other, by taking the best parts out 
of divers faces to make one excellent. Such jiersonages, I think, 
would please nobody but the painter that made them; not but I 
think a painter may make a better face than ever was; but he 
nnist do it by a kind of felicity (as a musician that maketh an excel- 
lent air in music), and not by rule. 

A man shall see faces, that, if you examine them part by part, 
you shull tind never a good ; and yet altogether do well. If it be 
true that tin? principal part of beauty is in decent motion, certainly 
it is no marvel though persons in years seem many times more 
amiable; puh-hroruin autttmniis pulcht'r: for no youth can be 
comely but by pardon, and considering the youtli as to make up tlie 
oomehness. Beauty is as Summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt 



TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 281 

and cannot last; and, for the most part, it makes a dissolute youth, 
and an age a little out of countenance ; but yet certainly again, if 
it light well, it maketh virtues shine, and vices blush. 



Lily's Ride ; or, A Race Against Time. 

The sketch which we pive below is one of the finest in our language. Lily had 
been notified that her father's life was in danger. In order to give him warning, she 
must bo at the station when liis train arrived. This would prevent his intended visit 
to a friend In the country, and probaljly save his life. 

"William," said Lily, as the stable-boy appeared, " put my sad- 
dle on Young Lollard, and bring him round as quick as possible." 

" But, Miss Lily, you know dat boss — " the servant began to 
expostulate. 

" I know all about him, William. Don't wait to talk. Bring 
him out." 

"All right. Miss Lily," he replied with a bow and a scrape. 
But, as he went toward the stable, he soliloquized angrily: "Now, 
what for Miss Lily want to ride dat pertikcrler boss, you spose? 
Never did afore. Nobody but do kunnel ebbor on his back, and he 
hab his hands full wid him sometimes. Dese furrcr-bred bosses 
jes' de debbil anyhow ! Dar's dat Young Lollard now, it's jest 'bout 
all a man's lifer's wuth tor rub him down an' saddle him. Why 
can't she take de ole un! Here you, Lollard, come outen datl" 

He threw open the door of the log stable where the horse had 
his quarters as he spoke, and almost instantly, with a short, vicious 
whinny, a. powerful, dark brown horse leai^cd into the moonlight, 
and with ears laid back upon his sinuous neck, white teeth bare, 
and thin, blood-red nostrils distended, rushed toward the servant, 
who, with a loud, "Dar nowl Look at him I Whoa! See de 
dam rascal!" retreated quickly behind the door. The horse rushed 
once or twice around the little stable-yard, and then stopped sud- 



282 TREASUBES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

denly beside his keeper, and stretched out his head for the bit, quiv- 
ering in every hmb with that excess of vitahty which only the 
thorouglibrcd horse ever exhibits. He was anxious for the bit and 
saddle, because they meant exercise, a race, an oj^portunity to 
show his speed, which the thoroughbred recognizes as the one great 
end of his existence. 

Before the horse was saddled, Lily had donned her riding 
habit, put a revolver in her belt, as she very frequently did when 
riding alone, swallowed a hasty supper, scrawled a short note to 
her mother on the envelope of the letter she had received — which 
she charged "William at once to carry to her — and was ready to 
start on a night-ride to Glenville. She had only been there across 
the country once; but she thought she luiew the way, or at least 
was so familiar with the "lay" of the country that she could find it. 

The bra^vny groom mth difficulty licld the restless horse by the 
bit; but the slight girl, who stood upon the block with pale face 
and set teeth, gathered the reins in her hand, leaped fearlessly into 
the saddle, found the stirrup, and said, "Let him go!" without a 
quiver in her voice. The man loosed his hold. The horse stood 
upright, and pawed the air for a moment with his feet, gave a few 
mighty leaps to make sure of his liberty, and then, stretching out 
his neck, bounded forward in a race which would require all the 
nu^ttle of his endless line of noble sires. Almost without 
words, her errand had become known to the household of servants; 
and as she flew down the road, her bright hair gleaming in the 
moonlight, old Maggie, sobbing and tearful, was yet so impressed 
Avith admiration, that she could only say: — 

" l)e Lor' bress her! Tears like dat chile ain't 'fear'd o' 
uoffin!" 

As she was borne like an arrow down the avenue, and turned 
into the Glenville road, Lily heard the whistle of the train as it left 
tlie depot at Verdenton, and knew that upon her coolness and res- 
olution alone depended the life of her father. It was, perhaps, well 
for the accomplislnuent of hor purpose, that, for some time after 
setting out on her perilous journey, Lily Sei-vosse had enough to do 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 283 

to maintain her seat and guide and control lier horse. Young 
Lollard, whom the servant had so earnestly remonstrated against 
her taking, added to the noted pedigree of his sire the special excel- 
lence of the Glencoo strain of his dam, from whom he inherited 
also a darker coat, and that touch of native savageness whicli cliar- 
acterizes the stock of Emancipator. Upon both sides his blood was 
as pure as that of the great kings of the turf, and what we liave 
termed liis savagery was more excess of H2)irit than any inchnution 
to do mischief. It was that uncontrollable desire of the thorough- 
bred horse to be always doing his best, which made him restless of 
the bit and curb, while the native sagacity of his race had led him 
to practice somewhat on the fears of his groom. With that caro 
which only the true lover of the horse can appreciate, Colonel Ser- 
vosse had watched over the growth and training of Young Lollard, 
hoping to see him rival, if he did not surpass, the excellencies of his 
sire. In everything but temper, he had been gratified at the result. 
In build, power, speed, and endurance, the horse offered all that 
the most fastidious could desire. In order to prevent the one de- 
fect of a quick temper from developing into a vice, the colonel had 
established an inflexible rule that no one should ride him but him- 
self. His groat interest in the colt had led Lily, wlio inherited all 
her father's love for the noljle animal, to look very carefully dur- 
ing his enforced absences after the welfare of his favorite. Once 
or twice she had summarily discharged grooms who were guilty of 
disobeying her father's iiijiuictions, and liad always made it a rule 
to visit his stall every day; so that although she had never ridden 
him, the horse was familiar with her person and voice. 

It was well for her that this was the case ; for, as she dashed 
away with the speed of the wind, she felt how powerless she was to 
restrain him by means of the bit. Nor did she attempt. Merely 
feehng his mouth, and keeping her eye upon the road before him, 
in order jihat no sudden start, to right or left should take her ])y 
surprise, she coolly kept her seat, and tried to soothe him l>y }j(;r 
voice. 

With head outstretched and sinewy neck strained to its utter- 



2f31 TREASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

most, lie fleAV over the ground in a wild, mad race with the evening 
wind, as it seemed. Without jerk or strain, but easily and steadily 
as the falcon flies, the high-bred horse skimraed along the ground. 
A mile, two, three miles were made, in time that would have done 
honor to the staying quality of his sires, and still his pace had 
not slackened. He was now nearing the river into which fell the 
creek that ran by Warrington. As he went down the long slope 
that led to the ford, his rider tried in vain to check his speed. 
Pressure upon the bit but resulted in an impatient shaking of the 
head, and laying back of the ears. He kept up his magnificent 
stride until he had reached the very verge of the river. There he 
stopped, threw up his head in inquiry, as he gazed upon the fretted 
waters hghted up by the full moon, glanced back at his rider, and 
with a word of encouragement from her marched proudly into the 
waters, casting up a silver spray at each step. Lily did not miss 
this opportunity to establish more intimate relations with her steed. 
She patted his neck, praised him lavishly, and took occasion to as- 
sume control of him while he was in the deepest part of the chan- 
nel, turning him this way and that much more than was needful, 
simply to accustom him to obey her will. 

When he came out on the other bank, he would have resumed 
his gallop almost at once, but she required him to walk to the top 
of the hill. The night was gromng chilly by this time. As the 
wind struck her at the hill-top, she remembered that she had 
thrown a hooded watei-proof about her before starting. She stopped 
her horse, and taking off her hat, gathered her long hair into a 
mass, and thrust it into the hood, which she threw over her head 
and pressed her hat down on it; then she gathered the reins, and 
they went on in that long, steady stride which marks the high-bred 
horse when he gets thoroughly down to his work. Once or twice 
she drew rein to examine the landmarks, and determine which road 
to take. Sometimes her way lay through the forest, and she was 
startled by the cry of the owl; anon it was through the reedy bot- 
tom land, and the half--v\41d hogs, starting fi-om their lairs, gave 
her an instant's fright. The moon cast strange shadows aroimd 



TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 285 

Her but still she pushed on. with tins one only thought in her 
^, that her fathe^r's life was at stake, and she'alone ^ould save 

■' * * * * 

She glrmced .t her watch as she passed from tmder the shade 
ot the oaks and as she held tl,e dial „p to the moonlight, gave a 
scream of ,oy. It was just past the stroke of nine. She 1 ad sW 
an W and haJf the distance had heen accomplished in M tl " 
time. She had no fear of her horse. Pressing on now in the 
swmgmg fox walk which he took whenever the'eharactel of th 
road or the mood of his rider demanded, there was no sign „ 
wearmess As he threw his head upon one side and the oth^r, as 

tended l„t, , ;,'""""" '""'■• ^'^ "™ "^'"'^ -- "is- 
tended, tat h.s hreath came regularly and f.dl. She had not for- 

aught, tat, as soon as she could control her horse, she had spared 
nm and compeUed him to husband his strength. Her spirits'r e 
at the prospect. She even caroled a bit of exultant song as Young 
LoUard swept on tlwongh a forest of towering pines, with a white 
sand.cus non stretched beneath his feet. The fragran e of the ph e 
cametohernostrds, and witl, it the thought of "frankincensef an" 

East Zt\ Z n :, fr" °' '"' °''"'""""'- ^''^ Star in the 
East, the Babe of Bethlehem, the Great Deliverer-all swept across 
her rapt v,s,on; and then came the priceless promise,^'! viU n 
leave thee, nor forsake thee." "m not 

Stm on and on the brave horse bore her with untiring hmb. 
^Z \ '■°'7""'S ''f »'^«<' i» '^ow consumed, and she comes to a 

m the midst of a level, old field covered with a thick growth of 

crubby pmes. Through the masses of thick green tre nto 

lanes winch stretch away in every direction, with no visible d^ffe ! 

encesave n, the density or frequency of the shadows which fall 

Tar, iT-, "T '™^ '° '"""^ ^•'™'' °' '"^ "-y intersect:" 
paths lead to her destmation. She tries this, and then that, for a 
few steps, consults the stars to determine in what direction Glen! 



286 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

ville lies, and has almost decided upon the first to the right, when 
she hears a sound "vs'hich turns her blood to ice in her veins. * * 

Hardly had she jDlaced herself in liiding, before the open space 
around the intersecting roads was ahve with disguised horsemen. 
She could catch ghmpses of their figures as she gazed through the 
clustering pines. * * * * (From a conversation among the 
horsemen, she learns which road leads to Glenville.) Lily, with 
her revolver ready cocked in her hand, turned, and cautiously made 
her way to the road which had been indicated as the one which led 
to GlenviUe, Just as her horse stepped into the j)ath, an over- 
hanging hmb caught her hat, and pulled it off, together with the 
hood of her watei-proof, so that her hair fell dovm again wpon her 
shoulders. She hardly noticed the fact in her excitement, and, if 
she had, coidd not have stopped to repair the accident. She kept 
her horse upon the shady side, walking upon the grass as much as. 
possible to j)revent attracting attention, watching on all sides for 
any scattered members of the clan. She had proceeded thus about 
a hundred and fifty yards, when she came to a turn in the road, 
and saw, sitting before her in the moonhght, one of the disguised 
horsemen, evidently a sentry who had been stationed there to see 
that no one came upon the camp unexpectedly. He was facing the 
other way, but just at that instant turned, and, seeing her indis- 
tinctly in the shadow, cried out at once — 

"Who's there? Halt!" 

They were not twenty yards apart. Young Lollard was trem- 
bling Avith excitement under the tightly drawn rem. Lily thought 
of her father half prayerfidly, half fiercely, bowed close over her 
horse's neck, and braced herself in the saddle, Anth every muscle 
as tense as those of the tiger waiting for his leap. Almost before 
the words were out of the sentry's mouth, she had given Young 
Lollard the spur, and shot like an arrow into the bright moonlight, 
straight toward the black, muffled horseman. 

"My God!" he cried, amazed at the sudden apparition. 

She was close upon him in an instant. There was a shot ; his 
startled horse sprang aside, and Lily, lu-ging Young Lollard to his 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 287 

utmost speed, was flying clown the road toward Glenville. She 
heard an uin-oar behind — shouts, and one or two shots. On, on, 
she sped. She knew now every foot of tlie road beyond. She 
looked back, and saw her pursuers swarming out of the wood into 
the moonhght. Just then she was hi a shadow. A mile, two 
miles, were passed. She drew in her horse to hsten. There was 
the noise of a horse's hoofs coming down a hill she had just de- 
scended, as her gallant steed bore her, almost with undiminished 
stride, up the opposite slope. She laughed, even in her terrible 
excitement, at the very thought that any one should attempt to 
overtake her. 

"They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Lochinvar," 
she hummed as she patted Young Lollard's outstretched neck. 
She turned when they reached the summit, her long hair streaming 
backward in the moonhght Hke a' golden banner, and saw the soli- 
tary horseman on the opposite slope ; then turned back, and passed 
over the hill. * * * * 

The train from Venderton had reached and left Glenville. The 
incomers had been divided between the rival hotels, the porters had 
removed the luggage, and the agent was just entering his office, 
when a foam-flecked horse with bloody nostiils and fiery eyes, rid- 
den by a young girl with a white, set face, and fair, flowing hair, 
dashed up to the station. 

"Judge Denton!" the rider shrieked. The agent had but time 
to motion with his hand, and she had swept on toward a carriage 
which was being swiftly driven away from the station, and which 
was just visible at the turn of the village street. 

"Papa, Papa!" shrieked the girlish voice as she swept on. 

A frightened face glanced backward from the carriage, and in 
an instant Comfort Servosse was standing in the path of the rush- 
ing steed. 

"Ho, Lollard!" he shouted, in a voice which rang over the 
sleepy town like a trumpet-note. 

The amazed horse veered quickly to one side, and stopped as 
if stricken to stone, while Lily fell insensible into her father's arms. 



288 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

When she recovered, he was benduig over her with a look in his 
eyes which she will never forget. 



Prosperity and Adversity. 

The virtue of prosperity is temperance; the virtue of adver- 
sity is fortitude. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament; 
adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater 
beuedictiou, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even 
ui the Old Testament, if you hsten to David's harj), you shall hear 
as many hearse-hke airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy 
Ghost has labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than 
the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not withoiit many fears 
and distastes ; and adversity is not . without comforts and hopes. 
We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more pleasing to 
have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a 
dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground; judge, there- 
fore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Cer- 
tainly, virtue is hke precious odors, most fragrant where they are 
incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but 
adversity doth best discover virtue. 




TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 289 



HORACE MANN. 



HORACE MANN was born in Franklin, Mass., May 4, 
1796, and he died August 2, 1859. His parents being 
poor, his early life was given to hard work. At the age of 
twenty-one he entered Brown University. Having studied 
law, he settled in Dedham, but soon moved to Boston. 

■ We admire Horace Mann chiefly for the part he lias 
taken in the educational interests of the United States. The 
present efficiency of the school system of Massachusetts is 
due almost wholly to his work. In 1837, he was chosen 
secretary of the State Board of Education. He continued in 
this office for twelve years. In 1853, he became president 
of Antioch College, at Yellow Springs, Ohio. His work as a 
teacher closed here, but his writing will ever continue to 
teach and to inspire those engaged in educational matters. 

His political record is important. In 1836, he was 
elected to the Massachusetts State Senate, where his promi- 
nence placed him at the head of the educational interests 
of his State. 

Upon the death of John Quincy Adams, he was chosen 
to represent his district in Congress, a position he occupied 
for six years. While in Congress he took an active part in 
all true reform measures. His remains rest in a burying- 
ground at Providence, R. L, and his bronze statue stands in 
the State House yard, Boston, opposite to that of Webster. 



19 



^90 Treasures from the prose world. 



Children and Their Education. 

Tho following wo tako from Horace Mann'a lectiirc, entitled— "What God Docs, 
and What IIo Leaves tor Man to do, in tlie Work of Kdncation." It is one of the finest 
liroduclious in i)rint, and sliould be read vvitli ciu'efnl thonglit. 

The cutiro lielplessncss of children, for a long period after 
birth, is another circumstance not within our control, and one de- 
serving of great moral consideration. In one respect, children may 
be said to possess their greatest power, at this, the feeblest period 
of their existence ; — a power which, — however paradoxical it may 
seem, — originates in helplessness, and therefore diminishes just in 
proportion as tliey gain strength. It was most beautifully said by 
Dr. Thomas Brown, that after a child has grown to manhood, "he 
cannot, even then, by the most imperious order, which he addresses 
to the most obsequious slave, exercise an authority more connnand- 
ing than that which, in the very first hours of his life, when a few 
indistinct cries and tears were his only language, he exercised irre- 
sistibly over hearts, of tlie very existence of which he was igno- 
rant." It may be added that, under no terror of a despot's rage; 
under no bribe of honors, or of wealth; under no fear of torture, 
or of death, have greater struggles been made, or greater sacrifices 
endured, than for those helpless creatures, who, for all purposes of 
immediate availabihty, are so utterly wortliless. AU, unless it be 
the lowest savages, fly to the succor, and melt at the sufferings of 
infancy. God has so adapted their unconscious pleadings to our 
uncontrollable impulse, that they, in their weakness, have the pre- 
rogative of command, and we, in our strength, the instinct of 
obedience. It was the highest wisdom, tlien, not to intrust the fate 
of infancy to any volitions or notions of expediency, on our part; 
but, at once, by a sovereign law of the constitution, to make our 
knowledge and power submissive to their inarticulate commands. 

In proportion as this power of helplessness wanes, the child 
begins to excite our interest and sympathy, by a thousand personal 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 291 

attractions and forms of loveliness. The sweetness of lips that 
never told a lie; the smile that celebrates the first-born emotions of 
love; the intense gaze at bright colors and striking forms, gather- 
ing together the elements from whose full splendor and gorgeous- 
ness Raphael jjainted and Homer wrote; the plastic imagination, 
fusing the solid substances of the earth, to be re-cast into shapes 
of beauty; — what Rothschild, what Croesus has wealth that can 
purchase these! 

How cheap and how beautiful, too, are the joys of childhood I 
Paley, in speaking of the evidences of the goodness of God, says 
there is always some "bright spot in the prospect;" — some "single 
example," "by which each man finds himself more convinced than 
by all others put together. I seem, for my own part," he adds, "to 
see the benevolence of the Deity more clearly in the pleasure of 
young children, than many things in the world. The pleasures of 
grown persons may be reckoned partly of their own procuring, 
especially if there has been any industry, or contrivance, or pursuit 
to come at them; or, if they are founded, like music, painting, etc., 
upon any qualifications of their own acquiring. But the pleasures 
of a healthy infant are so manifestly provided for it by another, 
and the benevolence of the provision is so unquestionable, that 
every child I see at its sport, affords to my mind a kind of sensi- 
ble evidence of the jBnger of God, and of the disposition which 
directs it." At the age of two or three years, before a child has 
ever seen a jest-book, whence comes his glad and gladdening laugh- 
ter, — at once costless and priceless? Whence comes that flow of 
joy, that gurgles and gushes up from his heart, like water flung 
from a spouting spring? That bright-haired boy, how came he as 
full of music and poetry as a singing-book? Who imprisoned a 
dancing-school in each of his toes, which sends him from the earth 
with bounding and rebounded step? What an ^olian harp the 
wind finds in him ! Nor music alone does it awaken in his bosom ; 
for, let but its feathery touch play upon his locks, or fan his cheek, 
and gravitation lets go of him, — he floats and sails away, as though 
his body were a feather and his soul the zephyr that played with it. 



292 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

ludced, half his discords come, because the winds, the buds, the 
flowers, the hght, — so many fingers of the hand of nature, — are 
iill striving to play different tunes upon him at the same time. 
These dehghts are born of the exquisite workmanship of the Crea- 
tor, before the ignorance and ^vickedness of men have had time to 
mar it; — and they flow out spontaneously and unconsciously, like a 
bird's song, or a flower's beauty. 

Even to those who have no children of their own, — unless they 
are, as the apostle expresses it, "without natural affection," — even to 
those, the wonderful growth of a child in knowledge, in power, in 
affection, makes all other wonders tame. Who ever saw a wretch 
so heathenish, so dead, that the merry song or shout of a group of 
gleeful children did not galvanize the misanthrope into an excla- 
mation of joy? ^Vllat orator or poet has eloquence that enters the 
soul with such quick and subtle electricity, as a child's tear of pity 
for suffering, or his frown of indignation at wrong? A child is so 
much more than a miracle that its growth and future blessedness 
are the only things worth working miracles for. God did not make 
the child for the sake of the earth, nor for the sake of the sun, as 
a footstool and a lamp, to sustain his steps and to enlighten his path, 
during a few only of the earliest years of his immortal existence. 

You perceive, my friends, that in speaking of the loveHness of 
children, and their power to captivate and subdue all hearts to a 
willing bondage, I have used none but mascuhne pronouns, — refer- 
ring only to the stronger and hardier sex; for by what glow and 
melody of speech can I sketch the vision of a young and beautiful 
daughter, with all her bewildering enchantments? By Avhat cun- 
ning art can the coarse material of words be refined and subtilized 
into color and motion and music, till they shall paint the bloom 
of health, "celestial, rosy red;" till they shall trace thjase motions 
that have the grace and the freedom of flame, and echo the sweet 
and affectionate tones of a spirit yet wai-m from the hand that 
created it? What less than a divine power could have strung the 
living chords of her voice to pour out unbidden and exulting har- 
monies? What fount of sacred flame kindles and feeds the light 



TREASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 293 

that gleams from the pure depths of her eye, and flushes her cheek 
with the hues of a perpetual morning, and shoots auroras from her 
beaming forehead? 0, profane not this last miracle of heavenly 
workmanship with sight or sound of earthly impurity ! Keep vestal 
vigils around her inborn modesty ; and let the quickest lightnings 
blast her tempter. She is Nature's mosaic of charms. Looked 
upon as we look ui)on an object in natural history, — upon a gazelle 
or a hyacinth, — she is a magnet to draw pain out of a wounded 
breast. While we gaze upon her, and press her in ecstacy to our 
bosom, we almost tremble, lest suddenly she should unfurl a wing 
and soar to some better world. 

But, my friend, with what emotions ought we to tremble, when 
our thoughts pass from the present to the future, — when we ponder 
on the possibilities of evil as well as of good, which now, all uncon- 
sciously to herself, lie hidden in her spirit's coming history,— now 
hidden, but to be revealed soon as her tiny form shall have ex- 
panded to the stature, and her spirit to the power, of womanhood? 
When we reflect, on the one hand, that this object, almost of our 
idolatry, may go through life solacing distress, ministering to want, 
redeeming from guilt, making vice mourn the blessedness it has 
lost because it was not virtue; and, as she walks, holy and immac- 
ulate before men, some aerial anthem shall seem to be forever 
hymning peaceful benedictions around her; or, on the other hand, 
that, from the dark fountains of a corrupted heart, she shall send 
forth a secret, subtle poison, compared with which all earthly ven- 
oms are healthfid; — when we reflect that, so soon, she may become 
one or the other of all this, the pen falls, the tongue falters and 
fails, while the hopeful, fearful heart rushes from thanksgiving 
to prayer and from prayer to thanksgiving. 

But the most striking and wonderful provision which is made, 
in the accustomed course of nature and providence, for the welfare 
of children, remains to be mentioned. 

Reflect, for a moment, my friends, how it has come to pass, 
that the successive generations of children, from Adam to our- 
selves, — each one of which was wholly incapable of providing for 



294 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

itself for a single day — how has it come to pass, that these suc- 
eossivo generations have been regularly sustained and continued to 
tlie present day, without intermission or failure ? The Creator did 
not leave these ever- returning exigencies without adequate provision ; 
— for how universal and how strong is the lc>ve of olTspring in the 
parentjil breast! This love is tlie grand resource, — tlie complement 
of all other forces. We are accustomed to call the right of self- 
preservation the first law of nature; yet how this love of offspring 
overrules and spurns it. To rescue her cliild, tlie mother breaks 
through a wall of lire, or jilunges into the fatliomless Hood; — or, if 
it must be consumed in the llames, or lie down in the deep, she 
clasps it to her bosom and perishes Avith it. This maternal impulse 
does not so much subjugate self, as forget tliat there is any such 
thing as self; and were the motlier possessed of a thousand 
lives, for the welfare of her offspring she would squander 
tliem Jill. Mourning, disconsolate moUiers, bewailing lost chil- 
dren! Behold tlie vast procession, which reaches from tlie ear- 
liest periods of the race to those who now stand bending and weep- 
ing over the diminutive graves wliich swallow up their luq>es; and 
•what a mighty attestation do they give to the strength of that 
instinct which God has implanted in the maternal broust. Nor is 
it in the human race only that this love of offspring bears sway. 
All the higher orders of animated nature are subjected to its con- 
trol. It inspires the most timid races of the brute creation AN-itli 
boldness, and melts the most ferocious of them into love. To ex- 
press its strength and watchfulness, the hare is said to sleep with 
ever-open eye on tlie form where her young repose; and tlie pelican 
to tear open her breast witli her own beak, and pour out her life- 
blood to feed her nestJings. The famishing eagle grasps her prey 
in her talons and carries it to her lofty nest; and though she 
screams with hunger, yet she will not ttiste it until her young are 
satisfied; and the gaunt lioness bears the spoils of the forest to her 
cavern, nor quenches the lire of her own parched lips until her 
"whelps have feasted. And thus, from tlie parent stock, — from the 
Adam and Eve, whether of animals or of men, who came into hfe 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 295 

full-formed from the hand of their Creator, — down through all suc- 
cessive generations, to the present dwellers upon eartli, has this 
invisible l)ut iiiigJity instinct of the parent's heart Ijroodcd and 
held its zealous watch over their young, nurturing their weakness 
and instructing their ignorance, until the day of their maturity, 
when it became their turn to re-affirm this great law of nature 
toward their ofTH])rJng. 

This, my friend, is not sentimentality. It is the contempla- 
tion of one of the divinest features in the economy of Providence. 
It was for the wisest ends that tbe Creator ordained, that as the 
offspring of eacii "after its kind" should be brought into life, — 
Mien, in that self-same hour, without volition or forethouglit on 
tlieir part, — there should flame up in the breast of the j)areijt, as 
from the innennost rectisses of nature, a new and overmastering 
impulse, — an impulse which enters the soul like a strong inv;ul<!i-, 
conquering, revolutionizing, transforming old pains into plcjasures 
and oJd pleasures into pains, until its grejit mission sliould be acconi- 
j)lished. On this link tiie very existence of the races was sus- 
pended. Hence Divine foreknowledge made it strong enough to 
sustain them all; — for, in vain would the fountain of lile have l>een 
opened in the maternal breast, if a deeper fountain of love had not 
been opened in her heart. 

Would you more adequately conceive what an insupportable 
wretcliedness and tonnoit tlie rearing of children would be, if, 
instead of being rendered deliglitful by these endearments of pa- 
rental love, it had been merely commanded by law, and enforced by 
pains and penalties, — would you, I say, more fully conceive this 
difference, — contrast the feelings of a slave-breeder (a wretch 
iibhorred by God and man), — contrast, I say, the feelings of a 
slave-hreeder who raises children for the market, with the 
feelings of the slave-mother, in whose person this sacred law 
(jf parental love is outraged. If one of these doomed 
children, from what cause soever, becomes puny and sickly, 
and gives good promise of defeating the cupidity that called it 
into life, with what hitter emotions does the master behold 



29G TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

it! He thinks of iuvostments sunk, of unmorcliaiitablc stock on 
hand, of tlio profit and loss acoonnt; and perliaps he is secretly 
meditating schemes for preventing further expenditures by bringing 
the liopeless concern to a violent close. But what aii inexpressible 
joy does the abused mother hud in watching over and caressing it, 
and cheating the hostile hours ; — and (for such is tlie impartiality 
of nature) if she can beguile it of one note of gladness from its 
sorrow-stricken frame, her dusky bosom thrills with as keen a rapt- 
Tire as ever thlated the breast of a royal mother, when, beneath a 
canopy and witliin curtains of silk and gold, she nursed the heir of 
a hundred kings. 

In civilized and Christianized man, this naturjil instinct is ex- 
alted into a holy sentiment. At lirst, it is true, there springs up 
this blind passion of piu-ental love, yearning for the good of the 
child, delighted by its pleasures, tortured by its pains. But this 
vehement impulse, strong as it is, is not left to do its work alone. 
It suumions and supplicates all the nobler faculties of the soul to 
beconu> its counselors and allies. It invokes the aid of conscience, 
ami conscience urges to do all and sutler all, for the child's welfare. 
For every default, conscience expostulates, rebukes, mourns, threat- 
ens, chastises. That is selfishness, and not conscience, in the 
parent, which says to tlie child, "You owe your being and your 
capacities to me." Conscience makes tlie parent say, "I owe my 
being and my capacities to you. It is I who have struck out a 
spnvk Avhich is to burn with celestial elTiUgence, or glare with bjile- 
ful tires. It is I, who have worked out of nothingness, unkiuiwn 
and incalculable capacities of happiness and of misery; and all 
tliat can bo done by mortal means is mine to do." 

Nov does this love of otfspring stop with conscience. It enlists, 
in its behalf, the general feeling of benevolence, — benevolence, that 
godlike sentiment which rejoices in the joys and suffers in the suf- 
ferings of others. The soul of the tridy benevolent man does not 
seem to reside much in its own body. Its life, to a great extent, is 
the mere reflex of tlie lives of others. It migrates into their 
bodies, and, identifying its existence with their existence, finds its 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 297 

own happineBS in increasing and prolonging their pleasures, in 
extinguishing or solacing their pains. And of all places into which 
the whole heart of benevolence ever migrates, it is in the child 
where it finds -the readiest welcome, and where it loves best to pro- 
long its residence. 

ho the voice of another sentiment, — a sentiment whose com- 
mands are more authoritative than those of any other which ever 
startles the slumbering faculties from their gmlty repose, — I mean 
the religious sentiment, the sense of duty to God, — this, too, comes 
in aid of the parental affection ; and it appeals to the whole nature, 
in language awfid as that which made the camp of the Israelites 
tremble, at the foot of Sinai. The sense of duty to God compels 
the parent to contornplate the child in his moral and religions rela- 
tions. It says, "However different you may now be from your 
child, — you strong, and he weak; you learned, and he ignorant; 
your mind capacious of the mighty events of tlie past and the 
future, and he alike ignorant of yesterday and to-morrow, — yet in 
a few short years, all this difference will be lost, and one of the 
greatest remaining differences between yourself and him will be 
that which your own conduct toward him shall have caused or per- 
mitted. If, then, God is Truth, if God is Love, teach the child 
above aU things to seek for Truth, and to abound in Love." 

80 much, then, my friends, is done in the common and estab- 
lished course of nature, for the welfare of our children. Nature 
supplies a perennial force, unexhausted, inexhaustible, reappearing 
whenever and wherever the parental relation exists. We, then, 
who are engaged in the sacred cause of education, are entitled to 
look upon all parents as having given hostages to our cause; and, 
just as soon as we can make them see the true relation in which 
they and their children stand to this cause, they will become advo- 
cates for its advancement, more ardent and devoted than ourselves. 
We hold every parent by a bond more strong and faithful than 
promises or oaths, — by a Heaven -established relation shi]), wliich 
no power on earth can dissolve. Would parents furnish us with a 
record of their secret consciousness, how large a portion of those 



298 TREASUBES FBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

solemn thoughts and emotions, which throng the mind in the soH- 
tude of the night watches and fill up their hours of anxious con- 
templation, would be found to relate to the welfare of their offspring. 
Doubtless the main part of their most precious joys come from the 
present or prospective well-being of their children ; — and oh ! how 
often would they account all gold as dross, and fame as vanity, and 
hfe as nothing, could they bring back the look of the cradle's inno- 
cence upon the coffined reprobate ! 

With some parents, of course, these pleasures and pains con- 
stitute a far greater share of the good or ill of hfe than with oth- 
ers ; — and mth mothers generally far more than with fathers. We 
have the evidence of this superior attachment of the mother, in 
those supernatural energies which she will put forth to rescue her 
child from danger; we know it by the vigils and fasting she will 
endure to save it from the pangs of sickness, or to ward off the 
shafts of death; when, amid all the allurements of the world, her 
eye is fastened and her heart dwells upon one spot in it ; we know 
it by her agonies, when, at last, she consigns her child to an early 
grave; we know it by the tear in her eye, when, after the lapse 
of years, some stranger repeats, by chance, its beloved name; 
and we know it by the crash and ruin of the intellect sometimes 
produced by the blow of bereavement; — all these are signatures 
written by the finger of God upon human nature itself, by which 
we know that parents are constituted and predestined to be the 
friends of education. They will, they must, be its friends, as soon 
as increasing intelligence shall have demonstrated to them the indis- 
soluble relation which exists between Education and Happiness. 

I have now spoken, my friends, of what is done for us, in the 
accustomed course of nature and providence, as it regards the well- 
being of our children. But here I come to the point of divergence. 
Here I must speak of our part of the work ; of those duties which 
the Creator has devolved upon ourselves. Here, therefore, it 
becomes my duty to expose the greatest of all mistakes, committed 
in regard to the greatest of all subjects, and followed by proportion- 
ate calamities. 



TBEASUBES FKOM THE PROSE WORLD. 299 

Two grand qualifications are equally necessary in the education 
of children, — Love and Knowledge. Without love, every child 
would he regarded as a nuisance, and cast away as soon as born. 
Without knowledge, love will ruin every child. Nature supplies 
the love, but she does not supply the knowledge. The love is 
spontaneous; the knowledge is to be acquired by study and toil, by 
the most attentive observation and the profoundest reflection. 
Here, then, Hes the fatal error: — parents rest contented with the 
feeling of love; they do not devote themselves to the acquisition of 
that knowledge which is necessary to guide it. Year after year, 
thousands and tens of thousands indulge the dehghtful sentiment, 
but never spend an hour in studying the conditions which are indis- 
pensable to its gratification. 

In regard to the child's physical condition, — its growth and 
health and length of hfe — these depend, in no inconsiderable 
degree, on the health and self- treatment of the mother before its 
birth. After birth, they depend not only on the vitality and tem- 
i:)erature of the air it breathes, on dress and diet and exercise, but 
on certain proportions and relations which these objects bear to 
each other. Now the tenderest parental love, — a love which burns, 
like incense upon an altar, for an idolized child, for a quarter 
of a century, or for half a century — will never teach the mother 
that there are different ingredients in the air we breathe, that one 
of them sustains life, that another of them destroys life, that 
every breath we draw changes the life-sustaining element into the 
life-destroying one; and therefore that the air which is to be 
respired must be perpetually renewed. Love will never instruct 
the mother what materials or textures of clothing have the proper 
conducting or non-conducting quahties for different chmates, or 
for different seasons of the year. Love is no chemist or physiolo- 
gist, and therefore will never impart to the mother any knowledge 
of the chemical or vital qualities of different kinds of food, of the 
nature or functions of the digestive organs, of the susceptibilities 
of the nervous system, nor, indeed, of any other of the various 
functions on which health and life depend. Hence, the most affec- 



300 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

tionate but ignorant mother, during the cold nights of Winter, will 
visit the closet-like bed-chamber of her darhng, calk up every crev- 
ice, cranny, smother him with as many integuments as encase an 
Egyptian mummy, close the door of his apartment, and thus inflict 
upon him a consumption, — born of love. Or she will wrap nice 
comforters about his neck, until, in some glow of jjerspiration, he 
flings them off, and dies of the croup. Or she will consult the in- 
finite desires of a child's appetite, instead of the finite powers of 
his stomach, and thus pamper him until he languishes into a life of 
suffering and imbecihty, or becomes stupefied and besotted by one 
of sensual indulgence. 

A mother has a first-bom child, whom she dotes upon to dis- 
traction, but, through some fatal error in its management, occa- 
sioned by her ignorance, it dies in the first, beautiful, budding 
hour of childhood — nipped like the sweet blossoms of Spring by an 
untimely frost. Another is committed to her charge, and in her 
secret heart she says, "I will love this better than the first." But 
it is not better love that the child needs; it is more knowledge. 

It is the vast field of ignorance pertaining to these subjects, in 
which quackery thrives and fattens. No one who knows anything 
of the organs and functions of the human system, and of the prop- 
erties of those objects in nature to which that system is related, 
can hear a quack descant upon the miraculous virtues of his nos- 
trums, or can read his advertisements in the newspapers — where- 
in, fraudulently toward man, and impiously toward God, he 
promises to sell an "Elixir of Life," or "The Balm of Immortahty," 
or "Resurrection Pills" — without contempt for his ignorance, or 
detestation of his guilt. Could the quack administer his nostrums 
to the great enemy, death, then, indeed, we might expect to Hve 

If the vehement, but bhnd love of offspring, which comes by 
nature, is not enhghtened and guided by knowledge and study and 
reflection, it is sure to defeat its own desires. Hence, the frequency 
and the significance of such expressions as are used by plain, rus- 
tic people, of strong common sense: "There were too many pea- 



TEEASUEES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELB. 301 

cocks where that boy was brought up;" or, "The silly girl is not to 
blame, for she was dolled up, from a doll in the cradle to a doll in 
the parlor." All children have foohsh desires, freaks, caprices, 
appetites, which they have no power or skill to gratify; but the 
foohsh parent supphes all the needed skill, time, money, to gratify 
them ; and thus the greater talent and resource of the parent foster 
the propensities of the child into excess and predominance. The 
parental love, which was designed by Heaven to be the guardian 
angel of the child, is thus transformed into a cruel minister of evil. 
Think, my friends, for one moment, of the marvelous nature 
with which we have been endowed, — of its manifold and diverse 
capacities, and of their attributes of infinite expansion and dura- 
tion. Then cast a rapid glance over this magnificent temple of the 
universe into which we have been brought. The same Being cre- 
ated both by His omnipotence, and by His wisdom. He has 
adapted the dwelling-place to the dweller. The exhaustless variety 
of natural objects by which we are surrounded; the relations of the 
family, of society, and of the race ; the adorable perfections of the 
Divine mind, — these are means for the development, and spheres 
for the activity, and objects for the aspiration of the immortal soul. 
For the sustentation of our physical natures God has created the 
teeming earth, and tenanted the field and the forest, the ocean and 
the air, with innumerable forms of life; and He has said to us, 
"have dominion" over them. For the education of the perceptive 
inteUect there have been provided the countless multitude and 
diversity of substances, forms, colors, motions, — from a drop of 
water to the ocean; from the tiny crystal that sparkles upon the 
shore, to the sun that blazes in the heavens, and the sun-strown 
firmanent. For the education of the' reflecting intellect we have 
the infinite relations of discovered and undiscovered sciences, — the 
encyclopaedias of matter and of spirit, of which aU the encyclopedias 
of man, as yet extant, are but the alphabet. We have domestic sym- 
pathies looking backward, around, and forward; and answering 
to these, are the ties of filial, conjugal, and parental relations. 
Through our inborn sense of melody and harmony, all joj^ful and 



302 TREASUBES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

plaintive emotions How out into spontaneous music; and, not 
friends and kindred only, but even dead nature echoes back our 
sorrows and our joys. To give a costless delight to our sense of 
beauty, we have the variegated landscape, the rainbow, the ever- 
rene-sviug beauty of the moon, the glories of the rising and the set- 
ting sun, and the ineffable purity and splendor of that celestial 
vision when the northern and the soutliern auroras shoot up from 
the horizon, and overspread the vast concave with their many-col- 
ored flame, as though it were a reflection caught from the waving 
banner of angels, when the host of heaven rejoices over some sin- 
ner that has repented. And finally, for the amplest development, 
for the eternal progress of those attributes that are proper to man, 
— ^for conscience, for the love of truth, for that highest of all emo- 
tions, the love and adoration of our Creator, — God, in his unsearch- 
able riches, has made full pro\isiou. And here, on the one hand, 
is the subject of education, — the child, with its manifold and won- 
derful powers — and, on the other hand, this height and depth, 
and boundlessness of natural and of spiritual instrumentahties to 
build up the nature of that child into a capacity for the intellectual 
comprehension of the universe, and into a spiritual similitude to 
its Author. And w'ho are they that lay their rash hands upon this 
holy work? Where or when have they learned, or sought to learn, 
to look at the mifolding powers of the child's soul, and to see what 
it requires, and then to run their eye and hand over this universe 
of material and of moral agencies, and to select and apply what- 
ever is needed, at the time needed, and in the measure needed? 
Surely, in no other department of life is knowledge so indispen- 
sable ; surely, in no other is it so little sought for. In no other 
navigation is there such danger of wreck ; in no other is there such 
blind pilotage. * * ********* 
You all recollect, my friends, that memorable fire which befell 
the city of New York, in the year 1835. It took place in the heart of 
that great emporium, — a spot where merchants whose wealth was 
like princes' had gathered their treasures. In but few places on 
tlie surface of the globe was there accumulated such a mass of 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 303 

riches. From each continent and from all the islands of the sea, 
ships had brought thither their tributary offerings, until it seemed 
like a magazine of the nations, — the coffer of the world's wealth. 
In the midst of these hoards, the fire broke out. It raged between 
two and three days. Above, the dome of the sky was Med with 
appalling blackness; below, the flames were of an unapproachable 
intensity of light and heat; and such were the inclemency of the 
season and the raging of the elements, that all human power and 
human art seemed as vanity and nothing. Yet, situated in the 
very midst of that conflagration, there was one building, upon 
which the storm of fire beat in vain. All around, from elevated 
points in the distance, from steeples and the roofs of houses, thou- 
sands of the trembhng inhabitants gazed upon the awful scene; 
and thought — as weU they might — that it was one of universal 
and undistinguishing havoc. But, as some swift cross-wind fur- 
rowed athwart that sea of flame, or a broad blast beat down its 
aspiring crests, there, safe amidst ruin, erect amongst the falling 
waUs, was seen that single edifice. And when, at last, the ravage 
ceased, and men again walked those streets in sorrow, which so 
lately they had walked in pride, there stood that solitary edifice, 
maharmed amid surrounding desolation; from the foundation to 
the cope-stone, unscathed; and over the treasure which had been 
confided to its keeping, the smell of fire had not passed. There it 
stood, like an honest man in the streets of Sodom. Now, why was 
this? It was constructed from the same materials, of brick and 
mortar, of iron and slate, with the thousands around it whose 
substance was now rubbish and their contents ashes. Now, why 
was this? It wasjbuilt by a workman. It was built by a workman. 
The man who erected that surviving, victorious structure knew the 
nature of the materials he used ; he knew the element of fire ; he 
knew the power of combustion. Fidelity seconded his knowledge. 
He did not put in stucco for granite, nor touch- wood for iron. 
He was not satisfied with outside ornaments, with finical cornices 
and gingerbread work ; but deep in all its' hidden foundations — in 
the interior of its walls, and in aU its secret joints — where no 



304 TREAStEES FHOM THE PEOSE WORLD. 

human eye should ever see the compact masonry — he consoUdated, 
and cemented, arid closed it in, until it became impregnable to fire 
— insoluble in that volcano. And thus, my hearers, must parents 
become workmen in the education of their childi-eu. . They must 
know that, from the very nature and constitution of things, a lofty 
and enduring character cannot be formed by ignorance and chance. 
They must know that no skill or power of man can ever lay the 
imperishable foundations of virtue, by using the low motives of 
fear, and the pride of superiority, and the love of worldly applause 
or of worldly wealth, any more than they can rear a material edifice, 
storm-proof and fire-proof, from bamboo and cane-brake! 

Until, then, this subject of education is far more studied and 
far better understood than it has ever yet been, there can be no 
security for the formation of pure and noble minds; and though 
the child that is born to-day may turn out an Abel, yet we have no 
assurance that he will not be a Cain. Until parents will learn to 
train up children in the way they should go — until they will learn 
what that way is — the paths that lead down to the realms of de- 
struction must continue to be thronged; the doting father shall 
feel the pangs of a disobedient and profligate son, and the mother 
shall see the beautiful child whom she folds to her bosom turn to 
a coiling serpent and sting the breast upon which it was cherished. 
Until the thousandth and the ten thousandth generation shall have 
passed away the Deity may go on doing his part of the work, but 
unless we do our part also, the work will never be done — and until 
it is done, the river of parental tears must continue to flow. Un- 
like Kachael, parents shall weep for their children because they are, 
and not because they are not; nor shall they be comforted, untd thej'- 
will learn that God in His infinite wisdom has pervaded the uni- 
verse with immutable laws — laws which may be made productive of 
the highest forms of goodness and happiness; and, in His infinite 
mercy, has provided the means by which those laws can be discov- 
ered and obeyed; but that He has left it to us to learn and to apply 
them, or to suffer the unutterable consequences of ignorance. But 
when the immortal nature of the child shall be brought v^thin the 



TEEASUBES FEOM THE PBOSE WOELD. 305 

action of those influeuces — each at its appointed time — which have 
been graciously prepared for training it up in the way it should go, 
then may we be sure, that God will clothe its spirit in garments of 
amianthus, that it may not be corrupted, and of asbestos, that it may 
not be consumed, and that it will be able to walk through the pools 
of eartlily pollution, and through the furnace of earthly temptation, 
and come forth white as linen that has been washed by the fuller, 
and pure as the golden wedge of Ophir that has been refined in the 
refiner's fire. 



Pictures. 



We don't care whether pictures abound in a house from pride, 
fashion, or taste, so that they be there. If there is insensibility 
in the proprietor, he may be the means of gratifying taste in others, 
or of awakening a taste where it was lying inactive before. It is 
more dehghtful, of course, where good taste prompts their supply; 
then the pleasure of the exhibitor is added to the gazer, be he never 
so humble, and the two reahze a better brotherhood — not before 
recognized, perhaps — in the broad avenue of natural taste. How 
cheerful the walls of a home look with them ; and, by the rule of 
opposites, how cheerless without them! It is a garden without 
flowers, a family without children. Let an observing man enter a 
house, and ten times in ten he can decide the character of the 
proprietor. If he is a mean man, there will be no pictures; if 
rich and ostentatious, they wiU be garish and costly, brought from 
over the water, with expensive frames, and mated with mathemat- 
ical exactness; if a man of taste, the quahty is observable, and, 
whatever their number or arrangement, regard has evidently been 
had to the beauty of subject and fitness, with just attention to 
light and position. In humble homes, when this taste exists, it 
still reveals itself, though cheaply, but the quick eye detects it and 

20 



806 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

respects it. We have seen it in a prison, where a judicious placing 
of a wood-cut or a common lithograph has given almost cheerful- 
ness to the stone walls on which it hung. 



Maxims of George "Washington. 

The biographer of George Washington has stated that when 
but thirteen years old, Washington drew up for his future conduct 
a series of maxims which he called "Rules of Civility and Decent 
Behavior in Company." We give these rules, as they are worthy 
of diligent study and cannot fail to both interest and profit the 
youth of our land : 

Every action in company ought to be some sign of respect to 
those present. 

In the presence of others sing not to yourself with a humming 
voice, nor drum with your fingers or feet. 

Speak not when others speak, sit not when others stand, and 
walk not when others stop. 

Turn not your back to others, especially in speaking; jog not 
the table or desk on which another reads or writes ; lean not on 
any one. 

Be no flatterer; neither play with any one that delights not to 
be played with. 

Read no letters, books, or papers in company; but when there 
is a necessity for doing it you must not leave; come not near the 
books or writings of any one so as to read them unasked; also 
look not nigh when another is writing a letter. 

Let your countenance be pleasant, but in serious matters some- 
what grave. 

Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though 
he were your enemy. 

They that are in dignity or office have in all places precedency; 
but whilst they are young, they ought to respect those that are their 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 807 

equals in birth or other qualities, though they have no public 
charge. It is good manners to prefer them to whom we speak 
before ourselves, especially if they be above us, with whom in no 
sort we ought to begin. 

Let your discourse with men of business be short and com-, 
prehensive. 

In writing or speaking give to every person his due title accord- 
ing to his degree and the custom of the place. 

Strive not with your superiors in argument, but always sul)- 
mit your judgment to others with modesty. 

When a man does aU he can, though succeeds not well, blame 
not him that did it. 

Being to advise or reprehend any one, consider whether it 
ought to be in public or in private, presently or at some other time, 
also in what terms to do it; and in reproving show no signs of 
choler, but do it with sweetness and mildness. 

Mock not nor jest at anything of importance; break no jests 
that are sharp and biting; and if you deliver anything witty or 
pleasant, abstain from laughing thereat yourself. 

Wherein you reprove another be unblamable yourself, for exam- 
ple is more prevalent than precept. 

Use no reproachful language against any one, neither curses 
nor revilings. 

Be not hasty to beheve flying reports to the disparagement of 
any one. 

In your apparel be modest, and endeavor to accommodate nat- 
ure rather than procure admiration. Keep to the fashion of your 
equals, such as are civil and orderly with respect to time and place. 

Play not the peacock, looking everywhere about you to see if 
you be well decked, if your shoes fit well, if your stockings set 
neatly and clothes handsomely. 

Associate yourself with men of good quahty if you esteem 
your own reputation, for it is better to be alone than in bad com- 
pany. 

Let your conversation be without mahce or envy, for it is a 



808 TREAStJBES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

sign of a tractable and commendable nature; and in all causes of 
passion admit reason to govern. 

Be not immodest in urging your friend to discover a secret. 

Utter not base and frivolous things amongst grown and learned 
men, nor very difficult questions or subjects amongst the ignorant, 
nor things hard to be believed. 

Speak not of doleful things in time of mirth nor at the table ; 
speak not of melancholy things, as death and wounds; and if 
others mention them, change, if you can, the discourse. Tell not 
your dreams but to your intimate friends. 

Break not a jest when none take pleasure in mirth. Laiigh 
not aloud, nor at all without occasion. Deride no man's misfor- 
tunes, though there seem to be some cause. 

Speak not injurious words, neither in jest nor earnest. Scoff 
at none, although they give occasion. 

Be not forward, but friendly and courteous; the first to salute, 
hear and answer; and be not pensive when it is time to converse. 

Detract not from others, but neither be excessive in commend- 
ing. 

Go not thither where you know not whether you shall be wel- 
come or not. Give not advice without being asked; and when 
desired, do it briefly. 

If two contend together, take not the part of either uncon- 
strained, and be not obstinate in your opinion ; in things indiffer- 
ent be of the major side. 

Reprehend not the imperfections of others, for that belongs to 
parents, masters and superiors. 

Gaze not on the marks or blemishes of others, and ask not 
how they came. What you may speak in secret to your friend 
dehver not before others. 

Speak not in an unknown tongue in company, but in your own 
language; and that as those of quahty do, and not as the vulgar. 
Subhme matters treat seriously. 

Think before you speak ; pronounce not imperfectly, nor bring 
out your words too hastily, but orderly and distinctly. When 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 309 

another speaks, be attentive yourself, and disturb not the audience. 
If any hesitate in his words, help him not, nor prompt him without 
being desired; interrvipt him not, nor answer him till his speech 
be ended. 

Treat with men at fit times about business, and whisper not in 
the company of others. 

Make no comparisons; and if any of the company be com- 
mended for any brave act of virtue, commend not another for the 
same. 

Be not apt to relate news if you know not the truth thereof. 
In discoursing of things you have heard, name not your author 
always. A secret discover not. 

Be not curious to know the affairs of others, neither approach 
to those that si:)eak in private. 

Undertake not what you cannot perform, but be careful to 
keep your promise. 

When you deHver a matter, do it without passion and indiscre- 
tion, however mean the person may be you do it to. 

When your superiors talk to anybody, hear thorn; neither 
speak nor laugh. 

In disputes be not so desirous to overcome as not to give lib- 
erty to each one to deliver his opinion, and submit the judgment 
of the major part, especially if they are judges of the dis2)ute. 

Be not tedious in discourse, make not many digressions, nor 
repeat often the same matter of discourse. 

Speak no evil of the absent, for it is unjust. 

Let your recreations be manful, not sinful. 

Labor to keep ahve in your breast that little spark of celestial 
fire called conscience. 

Be not angry at table, whatever happens ; and if you have rea- 
son to be so show it not; put on a cheerful countenance, especially 
if there be strangers, for good humor makes one dish a feast. 

When you speak of God or his attributes, let it be seriously, 
in reverence and honor, and obey your natural parents. 



310 TEEASUBES FEOM THE PEOSE WOKLD. 



The Little "Woman. 

There was a little woman on board, mtli a little child; and 
both little woman and httle child were cheerful, good-looking, 
bright-eyed, and fair to see. The little woman had been passing a 
long time with her sick mother in New York. The child was boiii 
in her mother's house, and she had not seen her husband, to whom 
she was now returning, for twelve months, having left him a month 
or two after their marriage. Well, to be sure, there never was a 
httle woman so full of hope and tenderness and love and anxiety, 
as this little woman was ; and aU day long she wondered whether 
"he" would be at the wharf; and whether "he" had got her letter; 
and whether, if she sent the child ashore by somebody else, "he" 
would know it, meeting it in the street; which, seeing that he had 
never set eyes upon it in his life, was not very hkely in the abstract, 
but was probable enough to the young mother. 

She was such an artless little creature, and was in such a sun- 
ny, beaming, hopeful state, and let out all the matter chnging 
closely about her heart so freely, that aU the other lady passengers 
entered into the spirit of it as much as she; and the captain, who 
heard all about it from his wife, was wondrous sly, I promise you, 
inquiring, every time we met at table, as if in forgetfulness, wheth- 
er she expected anybody to meet her at St. Louis, and dotting 
many other dry jokes of that nature. There was one httle weazen, 
dried-apple-faced old woman, who took occasion to doubt tlie con- 
stancy of husbands, in such circumstances of bereavement; and 
there was another lady, with a lap-dog, old enough to moralize on 
the lightness of human affections, and yet not so old that she could 
help nursing the child now and then, or laughing with the rest, 
when the little woman called it by its father's name, and asked it 
all manner of fantastic questions concerning him, in the joy of her 
heart. 

It was something of a blow to the httle woman, that, when 



TEEASURE3 FKOM THE PROSE WORLD. 311 

we were within twenty miles of our destination, it became clearly 
necessary to put this child to bed. But she got over it with tlie 
same good humor, tied a handkerchief around her head, and came 
out into the little gallery with the rest. Then such an oracle as 
she became in reference to the localities! and such facetiousness as 
was displayed by the married ladies, and such sympathy as was 
shown by the single ones, and such peals of laughter as the little 
woman herself, who would just as soon have cried, greeted every 
jest with! 

At last, there were the lights of St. Louis, and here was 
the wharf, and those were the steps; and the little woman, cover- 
ing her face with her hands, and laughing, or seeming to laugh, 
more than ever, ran into her own cabin, and shut herself up. I 
have no doubt but, in the charming inconsistency of such excite- 
ment, she stopped her ears, lest she should hear "him" asking for 
her; but I did not see her do it. Then a great crowd of people 
rushed on board, though the boat was not yet made fast, but was 
wandering about among the other boats, to find a landing-place ; 
and everybody looked for the husband, and nobody saw him, when, 
in the midst of us all. Heaven knows Iioav she ever got there, tliere 
was the little woman, clinging with both arms tight around the 
neck of a fine, good-looking, sturdy young fellow, and clapping her 
little hands for joy as she dragged him through the small door of 
her email cabin, to look at the child, as ho lay asleep. 




312 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 



DONALD G. MITCHELL. 



DONALD GRANT MITCHELL was born in April, 1822, 
in Norwich, Conn. In 18-il, at the age of nineteen, 
he was graduated at Yale College. Having passed three 
years on a farm, he sailed for Europe. In 1846 Mitchell re- 
turned to this country, and studied law in New York. In 
1847 he published i^rcs/t Gleanings; or .1 New Sheaf from the 
Old Fields of Continental Europe. This work he published 
under the nom de plume ot "Ik Marvel," a name which he 
had used in his agricultural articles in the Albany Cultivator. 
In 1848, he went to Europe again, and while there, wrote 
The Battle Summer, which was published in 1849 in New 
York. A series of sketches called The Lorgnette, satirical of 
city life, appeared anonymously, in 1850 ; Dream Life in 1851 . 
He served as United States consul at Venice from 1853 to 
1855. Upon returning to this country, he took up his home 
on his model farm, "Edgewood," near New Haven, Conn. 
Besides the works named, he published Fudge Doings in 
1854; My Farm of Edge wood, 1863 ; Wet Days at Edgewood, 
1864; Seven Stories, loith Basement and Attic, 1864; Doctor- 
Johns, a novel, 1866 ; Rural Studies, 1867 ; and Pictures of 
Edge wood, 1869. 

Mr. Mitchell has been popular upon the lypeum plat- 
form. 

His writings are very interesting. His style is pure and 
worthy of careful study. His Reveries of a Bachelor, from 
which we have taken "Letters," contains a "contemplative 
view of life," in which are many " pathetic scenes tenderly 
narrated. " 




DONALD G. MITCHELL. 



TEEASURES FBOM THE PliOSE WORLD. 313 



Letters. 

Blessed be letters ! — they are the monitors, they are also the 
comforters, and they are the only true heart-talkers. Your speech, 
and their speeches, are conventional ; they are molded by circum- 
stances; they are suggested by the observation, remark, and in- 
fluence of the parties to whom the speaking is addressed, or by 
whom it may be overheard. 

Your truest thought is modified half through its utterance by 
a look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not 
integral; it is social and mixed, half of you, and half of others. 
It bends, it sways, it multiphes, it retires, and it advances, as the 
talk of others presses, relaxes, or quickens. But it is not so with 
letters: — there you are, with only the soulless pen, and the snow- 
white, virgin paper. Your soul is measuring itself by itself, and 
saying its own sayings : there are no sneers to modify its utterance, 
— no scowl to scare, — notliing is present but you and your thought. 

Utter it then freely — write it down — stamp it — burn it in the 
ink ! — There it is, a true soul-print ! 

Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a letter I It is worth 
all the lip-talk of the world. Bo you say, it is studied, made up, 
acted, rehearsed, contrived, artistic? Let me see it then; let me 
run it over; tell me age, sex, circumstances, and I will tell you if 
it be studied or real; if it be the merest lip-slang put into words, 
or heart-talk blazing OJi the paper. I have a little paipirt, not very 
large, tied up with narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent 
handling, which far into some Winter's night I take down from its 
nook upon my shelf, and untie, and ojjen, and run over, with such 
sorrow and such joy, — such tears and such smiles, as I am sure 
make me for weeks after, a kinder and holier man. 

There are in this little jKu/iu't, letters in the familiar hand of a 
mother — what gentle admonition — what tender affection! — God 
have mercy on him who outlives the tears that such admonitions 



814 TBEASUBES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

and such affection call up to the eye ! There are others in the 
budget, in the delicate and unformed hand of a loved and lost sis- 
ter; — written when she and you were full of glee and the best 
mirth of youthfidness ; does it harm you to recall that mirthf ul- 
ness? or to trace again, for the hundredth time, that scrawling 
postscript at the bottom, with its *'s so carefully dotted and its 
gigantic fs so carefully crossed, by the childish hand of a little 
brother? 

I have added latterly to that paquet of letters ; I almost need a 
new and larger ribbon; the old one is getting too short. Not a few 
of these new and cherished letters, a former Reverie has brought 
to me ; not letters of cold praise, saying it was well done, artfully 
executed, prettily imagined — no such thing: but letters of sym- 
pathy — of sympathy which means sympathy. 

It would be cold and dastardly work to copy them ; 1 am too 
selfish for that. It is enough to say that they, the kind writers, 
have seen a heart in the Reverie — have felt that it was real, true. 
They know it; a secret influence has told it. What matters it, 
pray, if hteraUy there was no wife, and no dead child, and no 
'coffin, in the house? Is not feeling, feehng and heart? Are not 
these fancies thronging on my brain, bringing tears to my eyes, 
bringing joy to my soul, as hviug as anything human can be 
living? What if they have no material type — no objective form? 
All that is crude, — a mere reduction of ideality to sense, — a trans- 
formation of the spiritual to tlie earthly, — a levehng of soul to 
matter. 

Are we not creatures of thought and passion? Is anything about 
us more earnest than that same thought and passion? Is there 
anything more real, — more characteristic of that great and dim 
destiny to which we are born, and which may be written down in 
that terrible word — Forever? 

Let those who will, then, sneer at what in their wisdom they 
call untruth — at what is false, because it has no material presence : 
this does not create falsity; would to Heaven that it did! 

And yet, if there was actual, material truth, superadded to 



TEEASUKES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 315 

Reverie, wonld such objectors sympathize the more? No! a 
thousand times, no ; the heart that has no sympathy with thoughts 
and feehugs that scorch the soul, is dead also— whatever its mock- 
ing tears and gestures may say — to a coffin or a grave ! 

Let them pass, and we will come back to these cherished 
letters. 

A mother who has lost a child, has, she says, shed a tear— not 
one, but many— over the dead boy's coldness. And another, who 
has not, but who trembles lest she lose, has found the words failing 
as she reads, and a dim, sorrow-borne mist, spreading over tlie 
page. 

Another, yet rejoicing in all those family ties that make life a 
charm, has hstened nervously to careful reading, until the husband 
is called home and the coffin is in the house — "Stop!" she says; 
and a gush of tears tells the rest. 

Yet the cold critic will say — "It was artfully done." A curse 
on him ! — it was not art : it was nature. 

Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, has seen some- 
thing in the love-picture — albeit so weak— of truth; and has kindly 
beheved that it must be earnest. Aye, indeed is it, fair and gen- 
erous one, earnest as hfe and hope ! Who, indeed, with a heart at 
all, that has not yet slipped away irreparably and forever from 
the shores of youth — from that faiiy land wliich young enthusiasm 
creates, and over which bright dreams hover — but knows it to be 
real? And so such things will be real, till hopes are dashed, and 
Death is come. Another, a father, has laid down the book in 
tears. — God bless them all! How far better this, than the cold 
praise of newspaper paragraphs, or the critically contrived approval 
of colder friends ! 

Let me gather up these letters carefully, — to be read when the 
heart is faint, and sick of all that there is unreal and selfish in the 
world. Let me tie them together, with a new and longer bit of 
ribbon — not by a love-knot, that is too hard — but by an easy slip- 
ping knot, that so I may get at them the better. And now tliey 
are all together, a snug paquet, and we will label them, not senti- 



810 TREASUEES FEUM THE PROSE WORLD. 

mentally (I pity the one who thinks it), but earnestly, and in the 
best meaning of the term — Souvcmirs du Cmir. 

Thanks to my first Eeverie, which has added to such a treasure 1 



Happiness of Temper. 

Writers of every age have endeavored to show that pleas- 
ure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If 
the soul be haj^pily disposed, everything becomes capable of afford- 
ing entertainment, and distress will almost want a name. Every 
occurrence passes in review, like the figures of a procession ; some 
may be awkward, others ill-dressed, but none but a fool is, on that 
account, enraged with the master of ceremonies, 

I remember to have once seen a slave, in a fortification in 
Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his situation. He 
was maimed, deformed, and chained; obhged to toil from the ap- 
pearance of day till night-fall, and condemned to this for life; yet 
with all these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sang, 
would have danced, but tliat he wanted a leg, and appeared the 
merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical phi- 
losopher was here! A happy constitution supphed philosophy; 
and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was really wise. 
No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land 
around him. Everything furnished him with an oj^portunity of 
mirth; and though some thought him, from his insensibility, a fool, 
he was such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate. 

They, who, like that slave, can place themselves on that 
side of the world in which everything appears in a pleasant light, 
will find something in every occurrence to excite their good humor. 
The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can 
biing no new affliction ; the world is to them a theater, on which 
only comedies are acted. All the bustle of heroism or the aspira- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 317 

tions of ambition seem only to heighten the absurdity of the scene, 
and make the humor more poignant. They feel, in short, as httle 
anguish at their own distress or the complaints of others, as the 
undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Retz 
possessed this happiness in the highest degree. When fortune 
wore her angriest look, and he fell into the power of Cardinal 
Mazarin, his most deadly enemy (being confined a close prisoner 
in the castle of Valenciennes), he never attempted to support his 
distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He 
only laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely 
pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
denied all amusements and even the conveniences of hfe, and en- 
tirely cut off from all intercourse with his friends, he still retained 
his good humor, laughed at the httle spite of his enemies, and car- 
ried the jest so far as to write the life of his jailer. 

All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be stub- 
born or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's example will 
teach us to be good-humored in circumstances of the highest afflic- 
tion. It matters not whether our good humor be construed by 
others into insensibihty or idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, 
and none but a fool could measure his satisfaction by what the 
tcorld thinks of it. 

The happiest fellow I ever knew was of the number of those 
good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any 
body but themselves. Whenever he fell into any misery, he called 
it "seeing life. " If his head was broken by a chairman, or his 
pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the 
Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the 
other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention to money mat- 
ters had concerned his father to such a degree, that all intercession 
of friends was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
The whole family (and Dick among the number) gathered around 
him. 

" I leave my second son, Andrew," said the expiring miser, 



818 TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

"my whole estate ; and desire hiiu to bo frugal. " Andrew, in a sorrow- 
fixl tone (as is usual on such occasions), prayed heaven to prolong 
his life and health, to enjoy it himself. "I recommend Simon, my 
tJiird son, to the care of his elder brotlior, and Icaxo him, bosido, 
four thousand pounds." "Ah, father!" cried Simon (in great alUic- 
tion, to bo sure), "mny hoaven give you life and strengtli to enjoy 
it yourself I" At last, turning to poor Dick: "As for you, you have 
always boon a sad dog; you'll never come to good, you'll never he 
rich; I leave you a shilhng to hny a, halter.'' "Ah, father!'' cries 
Dick, without any emotion, "wwy hearen <iive you life and health to 
enjoif it i/oiirsflf!'^ 



Our Old Grandmother. 

Tliero is an old kitchen somowhoro in the past, and an old- 
fashioned firo-place therein, with its smooth old jambs of stone; 
smooth with many knives that have been sharpened tliere; smooth 
with many littJo fingors that have clung there. There are andirons 
witli rings in the top, Avherein many temples of Hame have been 
builded with spires and turrets of crimson. There is a broad, worn 
hoartli; broad enoiigh for tliree generations to cluster on; worn by 
feet that have been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made 
"beautiful," and walked upon floors of tessellated gold. There are 
tongs in the corner, wherewith we grasped a coal, and "blowing for 
a little life," lighted our first candle; there is a shovel, wherewitli 
were drawn forth the glowing enibei-s in which wo saw our first 
fancies and dreamed our first dreams; the shovel with which we 
stirred the logs, until the sparks rushed up tlie chimney as if a 
forge was in blast below, nnd wished we had so many lambs, or so 
many marbles, or so many somethings that we coveted; and so it 
was that we wished our first wishes. 

There is a chair, a low, rush-bi>ttomod chair; there is a lit- 
tle wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a loom in the 



TREASURES FROM TIIK I'UOSE WOTiril). 819 

chamber. There are cheHtfiilH of hncn and yarn, luid qnilt,H of rare 
patterns and samplers in frames. 

And everywlicro and always, is tlio dear old wrinklful face of 
her whoBe iijin, elastic stop mocks tlic feeble saunter of her chil- 
dren's chjldr(;n, tlie old-fashioned grandmother of twenty years ago; 
she, the very Providence of tlie old homentead; she, who loved iis 
all a,nd said slie winlied there were more of us to love, and took all 
the school ill the liollow for grandchildren besides. A great expan- 
sive heait washers, b(;n(iatli tlio woohui gown, or that more stately 
bombazine, or that sole heirlcjom of silken texture. 

Wo can see her to-day, — those mild, 1)1 lu; eyes, with rnoro 
of JK-aiity in tliem than time could touch, or deatli could do more 
than hide; those eyes that hold both smiles and tears within the 
faintest call of every one of us, and soft reproof that seemed not 
passion but regret. A white tress has escajied from beneath lier 
snowy cap; she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying 
over a window, as she came in, and pliu;ked a four-leaf clover for 
EUen. She sits down by the httle wheel; a tress is running 
through her fingerH from the distaff 's disheveled head, when a small 
voice cries, "(ii-andmii," from the old red cradle, and "(irandma," 
Tommy shouts from the top of the stiiirs. 0(!ntly she lots go the 
thread, for her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity, and 
she touches the little red bark a moment, till the young voyager is 
in a dream again, and then directs Tommy's unavailing attenipts 
to barn ess the cat. 

Tiie tick of tlie clock runs fast and low, and she opens the 
mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up. Wo are all on tij>too, 
and wo beg, in a breath, to bo lifted up, one by ono, and look in, 
the hundredth time, upon the tin cases of the w(;ightH, and the 
poor lonely pendulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim win- 
dows; and our petitions are all granted, and we are all lifted up, 
and wo all touch with the finger the wonderful weights, and the 
music of the wheel is resumed. 

Was Mary tf) be married, or was J;i,iio to bo wrapped in a 
shroud? So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon 



ii'lO TREASURES ITxOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

lior still bosom that tliero seemcil to be a prayer in them there; 
and so swootJy did she wreatlie the white rose in the hair of the 
other that one would not have wondered had more roses budded 
for company. How she stood between us and apprehended harm ; 
how the rudest of us si>ftoned beneath the gentle pressure of her 
faded and trenuilous hand! From her capacious pocket, that hand 
was ever witlidrawu dosed, only to be opened in our own with the 
nuts she had gathered, Avith the cherries she had plucked, the little 
egg she had found, tlio "turn-over" she had baked, the trinkets she 
had purchased for us as the products of her spinning, tlie blessings 
t^ho had stored for us, the offspring of her heart. 

What treasures of story fell from those old lips of good fair- 
ies and evil; of the old times when she was a girl; but wc won- 
der if ever she watt a girl — but tlien she couldn't be handsonuT or 
dearer — she was ever little. And tlien, ■when we begged her to 
sing: "Sing us one of tbe old songs you used to sing for mother, 
grandma." 

"OhiUlren, I can't sing," she always said, and nu>ther used 
always to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten stopped play- 
ing witli the yarn on tlio floor, and the clock ticked lower in the 
corner, and the lire died down to a glow, hko an old heart that is 
neitlier chilled nor dead, and granduu^thor sang. To be sure, it would 
not do for the parlor and concert-room nowadays; but tlien it was 
the old kitchen and tlie old-fashioned grandmother, and tlie old 
ballad, in the dear old tinu^s, and we can hardly see to write for tlie 
memory of them, though it is a hand's breadth to the sunset. 

Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering, like 
a fountain just ready to fail; but then how sweet-toned it was, and 
it became deeper and stronger; but it could not grow sweetei". 
What "joy of grief" it was to sit there lu'ound tlie lire, all of us, 
excepting Jane, and her we tliought we saw when tlie door was 
opened a moment by the Mind; but then we were not afraid, for 
was not it her old smile she wore — to sit tliere around tlie tire, and 
weep over tlie Avoes of the babes in the woods, who laid down side 
by side in the great solemn shadows I and how stitmgely glad wo 



TEEASUKES EBOM THE PROSE WORLD. 321 

felt, when the robin redbreast covered them with leaves, and last 
of all, when the angel took them out of night into day everlasting ! 

We may think what we will of it now, but the song and 
the story, heard around the kitchen fire, have colored the thouglits 
and the lives of most of us, have given the germs of whatever 
poetry blesses our hearts, whatever of memory blooms in our yes- 
terdays. Attribute whatever we may to the school and the school- 
master, the rays which make that little day we call life, radiate 
from the God-swept circle of the hearthstone. 

Then she sings an old lullaby, the song of her mother; 
her mother sang it to her; but she does not sing it through, and 
falters ere it is done. She rests her head upon her hands, and is 
silent in the old kitchen. Something glitters down between her 
fingers in the firelight, and it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. 
The old grandmother is thinking when she first heard the song, 
and of voices that sang it, when, a light-haired and light-hearted 
girl, she hung round that mother's chair, nor saw the shadows of 
the years to come. Oh! the days that are no more! What words 
unsay, what deeds undo, to set back just this once the ancient 
clock of time? 

So our little hands were forever clinging to her garments, and 
staying her as if from dying; for long ago she had done living for 
herself, and lived alone in us. 

How she used to welcome us when we were grown, and 
came back once more to the homestead ! We thought we were men 
and women, but we were children there; the old-fashioned grand- 
mother was blind in her eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she 
always did. We threw out long shadows through the open door, 
and she felt them as they fell over her form, and she looked dimly 
up, and she said : "Edward I know, and Lucy's voice I can hear, 
but whose is that other? It must be Jane's," for she had almost 
forgotten the folded hands. "Oh, no, not Jane's, for she — let mc 
see, she is waiting for me, isn't she?" and the old grandmother 
wandered and wept. 

" It is another daughter, grandmother, that Edward has 

21 



822 TREASURES PRO^r TltE PROSE WORLD. 

Lrouglit," says some one, "for your blossiiig." "Has she bine ©yes, 
my sou? Put her hands in mine, for she is my hito-born, the 
child of ui_y old ago. ShixU I sing you a song, children?" and she 
is idly fumbling for a toy, a welcome gift for the chilcli-on that have 
come again. 

One of us, men as we thought we were, is weeping; she 
hears the half-suppressed sobs, and she says, as she extends her 
fcoblo hands, "Here, my poor child, rest upon your grandmothei*'s 
shoulder; she will protect you from all harm." "Come, my chil- 
dren, sit around the fire again. Shall I sing you a song or tell you 
a story? Stir the fire, for it is cold; the nights are growing 
colder." 

The clock in the corner struck nine, the bedtime of those 
old days. The song of life was indeed sung, the sttiry told. It 
was bedtime at last. Goodnight to thee, grandmotlier. The old- 
fashioned grandmother is no more, and we shall miss her forever. 
The old kitchen wants a presence to-day, and the rush-bottomed 
chair is tenantless. But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the 
heart, and write ou it only this: 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY 

OF THP2 

GOOD OLD-FASHIONHD GRANDMOTHER. 

ODD BLESS HEB FOREVER. 




TllEAHlJBKH KKOM TIIH TUOSK WOULl). iyili 



Our Burdens. 

It iH (1, (•('IchniLcd ilioiigliL ol' Bocral,(!H, iliid, if ull iho iiiiHlor- 
luucH of iiiiMil<iii(l woro cast into a public wfcock, in onhsr to bo 
('(|iiii,]Iy (lisirihiii.cd luiioii^' \]w. wliolo KjXicioH, tlioHC wlio now think 
tli(iiiiH(ilv(\s tbo most iii)h;i|)j)y, would ))i'('f(!r tlio kIihto they an) u\- 
roiidy i)onH(!H.s('d of, Ixifon; ilud, wliich woidd full io tlioni by Hiicli ii, 
diviHJoii. I loi-;i-<'.() liii,H ciinicd tliis ilioii;.rlit ii, (_^r(!ii,t d(!ul further: ho 
sayH thiit tli(! hardshipH or niiHfortiiiKiH which wo lie nndcsr, arc 
more easy to iih than tlioso of any other porHon would he, in caHO 
we could cliaiifje conditioiiH with hini. 

As I waH rnniina;tiu{,' on tJieHO two roinarkH, and Hoii,t(^d in my 
elbow-chair, I innenHilviy fell aHlecj); when, on ;i, Hiidilcn, I thoiijdil, 
there was a proclannition made by Jupiter, that eve'ry luortid hIiouM 
bring in liiH griefH and cidaniiticH, and throw tlioin together in ii, 
heap. Th(!re wiih a Luge plain nppointed for thiw jiurpoHo. 1 took 
my stand in the center of it, ajid naw, with a great deal of pkiiHure, 
the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing 
down their several lon,dH, which inimediatiily grew up into a pro- 
digiouH mountain, that s(!em(!d to riws above the clouds. 

Tluinj was a certain liidy of a, thin, airy Hlia|)(!, who was very 
active in this Holcimnity. She cai-ried a, m;i,gnifying glass in one 
of h(!r hands, and was clothed in a loose, (lowing rolx;, (;mbroider< d 
with several figurcss of (icaids mjmI s[)ecires, tlia.t discovei'ed tlicni- 
Hi-'lves in a thonsiuid chimericiil sbajxss, ii,s her ga.rm((Mts hover<;<l in 
the wind, 'i'liere was something wild ajid distracted in her looks. 
Her name was Fancy. Hhe led up every mortal to the >ip])ointed 
place, after having very oIliciouHly assisted him in making up his 
pack, and laying it uj)on his shouldcirs. My heart melted within 
me, to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their resjjcctive bur- 
dens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities 
which lay before me. 

There, were, however, several persons, who gave me great 



824 TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel 
very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, whicli, 
upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. 
Another, after a great dejil of puffing, threw down his luggage, 
which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. 

There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical 
burdens composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, 
though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bun- 
dles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast tliem 
into the heap, when they came up to it; but, after a few faint eiTorts, 
shook tlieir heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came. 
I saw multitudes of old women tlirow down their wrinkles, and 
several yoimg ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. 
There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty 
teetli. The trutli of it is, 1 was suiinised to see the greatest part 
of the mountain made up of boihly deformities. Observing one 
advancing toward the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary up- 
on his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a nat- 
ural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among 
tliis collection of human miseries. There were likewise distempers 
of all sorts; tliough I could not but observe that there were many 
more nnaginary than real. One Httle packet I could not but take 
notice of, whicli was a complication of all the diseases incident to 
human nature, and was in the hand of a great many line people; 
tliis was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was 
a remark I made, that there was not a single vice or foUy thrown 
into the whole heap; at which I was very much astonished, having 
concluded witliin myself, that every one would take this oppor- 
tunity of getting rid of his passions, pi-ejudices, and frailties. 

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellOw, who I 
chd not question canu^ loaded with his crimes; but upon searching 
into his bundle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from 
him, ho had only laid down his memory. lie was followed by 
another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of 
his ignorance. 



TllEASUllES FllOM THE PI103E WOULD. 325 

When tlie whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, 
the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing mo 
an idle spectator of what had passed, approached toward me. I 
grew uneasy at her presence, when of a sudden she held her mag- 
nifying glass fvdl before my eyes, I no sooner saw my face in it, 
but I was startled by the shortness of it, which now appeared to 
me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of tlio 
features made me very much out of humor with my own counte- 
nance; upon which I threw it from me hke a mask. It happened 
very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before thrown 
down his visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was, 
indeed, extended to a shameful length; I believe the very chin was, 
modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had, both of us, 
an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contributions 
being now brought in, every man was at hberty to exchange his 
misfortunes for those of another person. But as there arose many 
new incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall reserve them for 
the subject of my next paper. 



In my last paper, I gave my reader a sight of that mountain 
of miseries, which was made up of those several calamities that 
afflict the minds of men. I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the 
whole species thus delivered from its sorrow; though at the same 
lime, as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several ma- 
terials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal, in 
this vast multitude, who did not discover what he thought pleasures 
of life ; and woaidered how the owners of them ever came to look 
upon them as burdens and grievances. 

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miser- 
ies, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclama- 
tion, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his afflic- 
tion, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as 
should be delivered to him. 

Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and parceling 



32G. TBEASUEES FKOM THE PKOSE WOELD. 

out the "whole heap Avith incredible activity, recoiumcndeil to every 
one his particular packet. The hurry and confiisiou at this time 
were not to be expressed. Some observations ^vhich I made upon 
this occasion I shall communicate to the public. A venerable, gray- 
headed man, \vho had laid doAvn the colic, and Avho I fomid ^Yantcd 
an heir to his estate, snatched up an imdutiful son, that had been 
tluxnvn into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in 
less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the 
beard, and had hke to have knocked his brains out; so that meet- 
ing the true father, who came toward him witli a fit of the gripes, 
he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; 
but they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they 
had made. A poor galley slave who had thrown down bis chains, 
took \ip the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces, that one 
might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It 
was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, 
for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and 
care against pain. 

The female world were very busy among themselves in barter- 
ing for features ; one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a car- 
buncle; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round 
shoulders; and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation; 
but on !^ tliese occasions, there was not one of them who did not 
think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her posses- 
sion, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same 
observation on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one 
in the assembly brought upon himself, in lieu of what he had 
parted with ; whether it be that all the ev-ils which befall us are in 
some measure suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every 
evil becomes more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I 
shall not determine. 

I could not for my heart forbear pitving the poor humpbacked 
gentleman, mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very 
Avell-shaped person with a stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentle- 
man who had struck up his bargain with him, that limped through 



TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 827 

a whole assembly of ladies who used to admire him, with a pair of 
shoulders peeping over his head. 

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend 
witli tlie long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, 
Ijut ho made so grotesque a figure, that as I looked upon him I 
could not forbear laughing iit myself, insomuch that I put my own 
face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of 
the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done; on 
the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to tri- 
umph, for as I went to touch my forehead I missed the place, and 
clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was 
exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I 
was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other 
part of it. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the 
same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish exchange 
between a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap sticks that 
had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking 
upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary 
height, that his head turned romid with it; while the other made 
so awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew 
how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to 
be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and 
told him I would lay him a bottle of wine, that he did not march 
up to it, on a line that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour. 

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who 
made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under 
the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled 
with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jujiiter, 
at length, taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a 
second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give everyone 
his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of 
j)leasure; after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross 
delusions, was cominanded to disappear. There was sent in her 
stead a goddess of a quite different figure; her motions were steady 
and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now 



828 TEEASUKES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

and then cast her eyes toward lieaven, and fixed them upon Jnpiter; 
her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the 
Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole 
heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so 
big as it was before. She afterward returned every man his own 
proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most com- 
modious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very 
well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to the 
kind of evils which fell to his lot. 

Resides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this 
vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or 
to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any 
man to fonn a right judgment of his neighbor's sufferings; for 
which reason also, I have determined never to tliink too lightly of 
another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creat- 
ures mth sentiments of humanity and compassion. 



In the Garret. 

Sarcastic people are wont to say that poets dwell in garrets, 
and simple people believe it. And otliers, neither sarcastic nor 
simple, send them up aloft, among the rubbish, just because they 
do not know what to do with them downstairs, and "among folks," 
and so they class them under tlie head of rubbish, and consign 
them to the grand receptacle of dilapidated "has been's" and de- 
spised "used to he's" — the old garret. 

The garret is to tlie other apartments of tlie old homestead 
what the adverb is to the pedagogue in parsing; everytliing they 
do not know how to dispose of is consigned to tlie list of adverbs. 
And it is for this precise reason that we love garrets ; because tliey 
do contain the rehcs of the old and the past — remembrances of 
other and happier and simpler times. They have come to build 
houses nowadays without garrets. Impious innovation I 



TIIEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORFJ). 820 

You man of bronzo and "bearded like the pard," who would 

make pooplci boliovo, if you could, tliat you never were a "toddlin* 
wee Uiiii;^';" tli;il, you iiover wore a "riifllo-droHH," or jingled a rat- 
tle-box with iMfuiit,e (l(;li{^'lil; i\in,t you n(!Vor had a Juother, and that 
slie never became an old woman, and wore caps and Hpectacles, 
and, maybe, took Himlf; ^o home once metre, aft(!r all tlioHC years 
of absence, all booted and whiskered, and six feet high as you are, 
and let us go up the stairs together — in that old-fashioned, 
spacious garret, that extends from gable to gal>le, witli its narrow 
old windows, with a spider-web of a sash, through which steals 
"a dim religious light" upon a museum of things unnamable, that 
once figured below stairs, but were long since crowded out by the 
Vandal liand f)f these modern times. 

I'he loose boards of the floor rattle somewhat as they used to 
do — don't they? — when beneath your little pattering feet they clat- 
tenid aforetime, when, of a rainy day, "mothor," wearied with 
many-tongued importunity, granted the "Let us go up in the garret 
and play." And jday! Precious little of "play" have ycju had 
since, we'll warrant, with your looks of dignity, and your dream- 
ings of ambition. 

Here we are now in the midst of the garret. The old barrel 
—shall we rummage it? Old files of newspapers — dusty, yellow, a 
little tattered I 'Tis the "Columbian Star." ll(;w familiiir with the 
"Letters or papers for father?" And these same Stars, just damp 
from the press, were carried One by one from the fireside, and pe- 
rused and preserved as they ought to be. Stars? Damp? xaany 
a star lias set since then, and many a new-tufted heap grown dewy 
and damp with rain that fell not from tlie clouds. 

Dive deeper into the barrel. There I A bundle, up it comes, 
in a cloud of dust. Old almanacs, by all that is memorable I Al- 
manacs! thin-leaved ledgers of time, going back to —let us see how 
far; 184-, 183-, 182-, — before our time — 180-, when our mothers 
were children. And the day-book — how lilotted ajid blurred with 
many records and many t(!ars I 

There, you have hit your head against that beam. Time wa« 



880 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

when yoii ran to and fro beneath it, but you are nearer to it now, 
by more than the "altitude of a copine." The beam is strewn with 
forgotten papers of seeds for the next year's so\\ing; a distaflf, with 
some few shreds of tiax remaining, is thrust in a crevice of the 
nvftcrs overhead; and tucked away close under the eaves is "the 
little wheel" that used to stand by the fire in times long gone. Its 
sweet low song has ceased; and perhaps — perhaps she who drew 
those flaxen threads — but never mind — you remember the hne, 
don't you? — 

"Her wheel at rest, the matron charms no more." 

Well, let tliat pass. Do you see that httle craft careened in 
that dark corner? It was red once; it was the only casket within 
the house once; and contained a motlier's jewels. The old rod 
cradli', for all the world! And you occupied it once; ay, great as 
you are, it was your world once, and over it, the only horizon you 
behold, bont the heaven of a mother's eyes, as you rocked in that 
little bark of love on the hither shore of time — fast by a mother's 
love to a mother's heart. 

And tliere, attached to two rafters, are the fragments of an 
untwisted n>pe. Do you romombor it, and what it was for, and 
who fastened it there? 'Twas "tlie children's swing." You are 
here, indeed, but where are Nelly and Charley! There hangs his 
little cap by the window, and there the little red frock she used to 
wear. A crown is resting on his cherub brow, and her robes are 
spotless in the better laud. 




TUICASURES VliUM I'illi i'KOyii WOKLD. '6'dl 



Anglo-Saxon Influences of Home. 

In the sunrjy clinics of Southern Europe, where a sultry aud 
relaxing day is foUowed by a Ijalmy and refreshing night, and but a 
brief period intervenes between the fruits of Autuinn and the re- 
newed promises of Spring, life, both social and industrial, is chielly 
passed beneath the open canopy of heaven. The brightest hours 
of the livelong day are dragged in drowsy, listless toil, or indolent 
repose; but the evening breeze invigorates the fainting frame, 
rouses the flagging spirit, and calls to dance, and revelry, and song, 
beneath a brilliant moon or a starlit sky. No necessity exists 
for those household comforts which are indispensable to the inhab- 
itants of colder zones, and the charms of domestic life arc scarcely 
laiown in their perfect growth. But in the frozen North, for a 
large portion of the year, the pale and feeble rays of a clouded sun 
but partially dispol, for a few short hours, the chills and shades of 
a hngering dawn, and an early and tedious night. Snows impede 
the closing labors of harvest, and stiifening frosts aggravate the 
fatigues of the wayfarer, and the toils of the forest. Eepose, 
society, and occupation alike, must, therefore, be sought at the 
domestic hearth. Secure from the tempest that howls without, the 
father and the brother here rest from their weary tasks; here the 
family circle is gathered around the evening meal, and lighter 
labor, cheered, not interrupted, by social intercourse, is resumed, 
and often protracted, till, like the student's vigils, it almost "out- 
watch tlie Bear." Here the child grows up imder the ever watch- 
ful eye of the parent, in the first and best of schools, where lisping 
infancy is taught the rudiments of sacred and profane knowledge, 
and the older pupil is encouraged to con over by the evening taper, 
the lessons of the day, and seek from the father or a more advanced 
brother, a solution of the problems which juvenile industry has 
found too hard to master. 

Tlie menil)ers of the domestic circle are thus brought into 
closer contact ; parental authority assumes the gentler form of per- 



332 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

suasive influences, and filial submission is elevated to affectionate 
and respectful observance. The necessity of mutual aid and for- 
bearance, and the perpetual interchange of good offices, generate 
the tenderest kindliness of feeling, and a lasting warmth of attach- 
ment to home and its inmates, throughout the patriarchal circle. 

Among the most important fruits of this domesticity of life, 
are the better appreciation of the worth of the female character, 
woman's higher rank as an object, not of passion, but of reverence, 
and the reciprocal moral influence which the two sexes exercise 
over each other. 

They are brought into close' communion under circumstances 
most favorable to preserve the purity of woman, and the decorum 
of man, and the character of each is modified, and its excesses 
restrained, by the example of the other. 

Man's rude energies are softened into something of the ready 
sympathy and dexterous helpfulness of woman; and woman, as 
she learns to prize and to reverence the independence, the heroic 
firmness, the patriotism of man, acquires and appropriates some 
tinge of his peculiar virtues. Such were the influences which 
formed the heart of the brave, good daughter of apostolic John 
Knox, who bearded that truculent pedant, James I, and told him 
she would rather receive her husband's head in her lap, as it feU 
from the headsman's axe, than to consent that he should purchase 
his life by apostasy from the religion he had preached, and the God 
he had worshiped. To the same noble school belonged that goodly 
company of the Mothers of New England, who shrank neither from 
the dangers of the tempestuous sea, nor the hardships and sorrows of 
that first awful Winter, but were ever at man's side, encouraging, 
aiding, consoling, in every peril, every trial, every grief. 

Had that grand and heroic exodus, like the mere commercial 
enterprises to which most colonies owe their foundation, been unac- 
companied by woman, at its first outgoing, it had, without a visi- 
ble miracle, assuredly failed, and the world had wanted its fairest 
example of the Christian virtues, its most unequivocal tokens that 
the Providence which kindled the piUar of fire to lead the wan- 



TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WOELD. 333 

dering steps of its people, yet has its chosen tribes, to whom it 
vouchsafes its wisest guidance and its choicest blessings. Other 
communities, nations, races, may glory in the exploits of their 
fathers ; but it has been reserved to us of New England to know 
and to boast, that Providence has made the virtues of our mothers 
a yet more indispensable condition and certain ground, both of our 
past prosperity and our future hope. 

The strength of the domestic feehng engendered by the influ- 
ences which I have described, and the truer and more inteUigent 
mutual regard between the sexes, which is attributable to the same 
causes, are the principal reasons why those monastic institutions, 
which strike at the very root of the social fabric, and are eminently 
hostile to the practice of the noblest and lovehest pubhc and private 
virtues, have met with less success, and numbered fewer votaries in 
Northern than in Southern Christendom. The celibacy of the 
clergy was last adopted, and first abandoned, in the North; the fol- 
lies of the Styhtes, the lonely hermitages of the Thebaid, the silence 
of La Trappe, the vows, which, seeming to renounce the pleasures 
of the world, do but abjure its better sympathies, and, in fine, all 
the selfish austerities of that corrupted Christianity, which grossly 
seeks to compound by a mortified body for an unsubdued heart, 
originated in chmates unfavorable to the growth and exercise of the 
household virtues. 




iW\ TREASUEES ^'1U)^[ 'i'llK PllOSE WOULD. 



Thoughts on Various Subjects. 

It is iiloasani to obsorvo how i'lvo tlio [irosout iv;^o is in layinp; 
taxos on tlionext: "Futmo a}j;os sliall talk of this; thisshall bo famous 
to all postority; " wlioioas thoir tinu> ami tlion!j;hts will be taken np 
abont proseut things, as ours arc mnv. 

It is in disputes as in armies, where the weaker side setteth up 
false lii^hts, ami mak»>th a. great noise, that the enemy may believe 
them to be nunv numerous and strong tlum tliey really are. 

1 have known some men possessed of good qualities, which 
were very serviceable to others, but useless to themselves; like a 
smi-dial on tlu> front of a Imuse, to inform the neighbors and pas- 
sengers, but not the owner within. 

If a man would register all his opinions upon love, politics, 
religion, learning, etc., beginning from his youtli, tuid so go on to 
old age, what a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions would 
appear at last! 

The stoical sohemo of supplying our wants by loppiug off our 
desires, is like cutting otl our feet when we want shoes. 

The reason why so few nuirriages are happy, is because young 
ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages. 

Censure is tlie tax a nnin payeth to the public for being emi- 
nent. 

No wise man ever wished to be younger. 

An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave 
before. 

Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven receives, and the sin- 
cerest part of our devotion. 

The cmunum tlueucy of speech in numy men and most women 
is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of words; for who- 
ever is a nnister of language, and hath a mind full of ideas, AviU 
be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both ; whereas 
common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 836 

words to clothe tlicm In, and these are always ready at tlie month. 
So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, 
than when a crowd is at the door. 

To be vain is rather a mark of humility than pride. Vain 
men delight in telling what honors have been done them, what 
great company they have kept^ and the like; by which they plainly 
confess that tlicsc honors were more than due, and such as their 
friends would not believe if tluy had not been told; whereas a 
man tmly proud tliinks the greatest honors below his merit, and 
consequently scorns to boast. I therefore deliver it as a maxim, 
that whoever desires the cliaracter of a proud man ought to con- 
ceal his vanity. 

^ Every man desireth to live long, but no man would be old. 

If books and laws continue to increase as they have done for 
fifty years past, I am in some concern for future ages, how any 
man will be learned, or any man a lawyer. 

If a man maketh me keep my distance, the comfort is, he 
keepeth his at the same time. 

Very few men, properly speaking, Una at present, but are pro- 
viding to live another time. 

Princes in their infancy, childhood, and youth, are said to dis- 
cover prodigious parts and wit, to speak things that sui-prise and 
astonish; strange, so many hopeful princes, so many shameful 
kings I If they happened to die young, they would have been prod- 
igies of wisdom and virtue; if they live, they are often prodigies, 
indeed, but of another sort . 




aiUJ TKEASUrvES fROM THE fROSE WORLD. 



BRET HARTE. 



FTwVNCIS BFxET IIARTE Nvas born in Albany. New York. 
August 25, 1837, and is now in the prime of life. His 
father died while Bret was very young. When but seven- 
teen years of age, young Harto went to California and led a 
roving life for three years, sometimes digging for gold, some- 
times teaching school, and finally acting as an express man- 
ager. He was schooled in active life as a miner and teacher, 
next as a compositor and contributor, subsequently as a 
member of the editorial stali", and finally as editor of the 
Cul'{f'ornian, a literary weekly. From 1804 to 1870, he held 
the olhce of secretary of the United States branch mint iu 
San Francisco. 

In 18(>8 the Orcrhind ^[otlthh/ was started, and Bret 
Ilarte was selected as editor. In the August number of that 
year appeared lus Luck of luhiniuj Ciinip. and still later, 77a' 
Oittciu<t$o/ Poktr Fhit. From the latter work, we have made 
ovn- selection. *' The Society upon the Stanislan." ** John 
Burns of Gettysburg." "The Pliocene Skull," and "The 
Heathen Chinee." are his well known productions. 

•• There is an amusing story to the etlect that the proof- 
reader, a young woman with a superabundance of modesty, 
reported to the publishers that his Tjwk of Ixoar'nuj Camp 
was a most shocking aiiicle. unfit for publication, that the 
publishers took the alarm and besought Harte to withdraw 
it. and that he made its appearance the condition of his re- 
taining the editorship. This sketch, which met with an en- 
thusiastic reception from the entire reading public, was tlie 




liUKT IIAItTK. 



Treasuees erom the prose world. 337 

beginning of his most artistic and effective work." Now the 
best journals and magazines in the country are glad to se- 
cure his valuable and interesting contributions. In 1870, 
Harte held the position as Professor of Kecent Literature in 
the University of California. In 1871, he severed his con- 
nection with the literary and school work of the West, and 
fixed his residence in New York City. His Condensed Novels, 
two volumes of short stories, and volumes of poems, as well 
as the other works mentioned in this sketch, are deservedly 
popular. 

Mr. Harte is now enjoying the Summer of life as a prom- 
inent lyceum lecturer. 




22 



888 TREASUEES PROM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



The Outcasts of Poker Flat. 

The following sdoctlous from Bret Harte's pen arc beautiful iu tho extreme. Its 
length prevents \is from giviiii: tho entire sketch here: 

As tlie shadows crept slowly up tlio moiiutain, a sHcjlit breeze 
rocked tho tops of the pine-trees, and moaned through their long 
niui gloomy aisles. The ruined cabin, patched and covered with 
pine boughs, was set apart for the ladies. As tlie lovers parted, 
ihov unalfectoiUy exchanged a kiss, so honest and sincere that it 
might have been heard above the swaying pines. The frail Duchess 
and the malevolent Mother Shiptou were probably too stunned to 
remark upon this last evidence of simplicity, and so turned without 
a word to the hut. The tire was replenished, the men lay down 
before tho door, and in a few minutes were asleep. 

II 

The third day came, and the sun, looking through the white- 
curtained valley, saw the outcasts divide their slowly decreasing 
store of provisions for the morning meal. It Avas one of the pecul- 
iarities of that mountain climate that its rays diffused a kindly 
warmth over the wintry landscape, as if in regretful commiseration 
of the past. But it revealed drift on drift of snow piled high 
around the hut — a hopeless, uncharted, trackless sea of white, lying 
below the rocky shores to which the castaways still clung. 
Through tlie marvelously clear air tlie smoke of tlie pastoral vil- 
lage of Poker Flat rose miles away. Mother Shipton saw it, and 
from a remote pinnacle of her rocky fastness hurled in that direc- 
tion a final malediction. It was her last vitupenxtive attempt, and 
perhaps for that reason was invested witl a certain degree of sub- 
limity. It did her good, she privately informed' the Duchess. 
"Just you go out there and cuss, and see. " She then set herself to 
tlie task of amusing "the child," as she and the Duchess were 



I'REASUKES FllOM THE I'llOSR WORLD. 8H0 

pleased to call Pincy. Pincy was no chicken, Init it was a sooth- 
ing and original theory of the pair thus to account for the fact that 
slie didn't swear and wasn't improper. 

When night crept up again through the gorges, the reedy notes 
of the accordion rose and fell in fitful spasms and long-drawn gasps 
by the flickering camp-fire. But music failed to fill entirely the 
aching void left by insufficient food, and a new diversion was pro- 
posed by Pincy — story- telling. 

Neither Mr. Oakhurst nor his female companions caring to re- 
late their personal experiences, this plan would have failed too, but 
for the Innocent. Some months before he had chanced upon a 
stray cojiy of Mr. Pope's ingenious translation of the Iliad. He 
now proposed to narrate the principal incidents of that poem — hav- 
ing thoroughly mastered the argument and fairly forgotten the 
words — in the current vernacular of Sandy Bar. And so for the 
rest of that night the Homeric demigods again walked the earth. 
Trojan bully and wily Greek "wrestled in the winds, and the great 
pines in the canyon seemed to bow to the wrath of the son of 
Peleus. Mr. Oakhurst hstened with quiet satisfaction. Most es- 
pecially was he interested in the fate of "Ash-heels," as the Inno- 
cent persisted in denominating the "swift-footed Achilles." 

So, with small food and much of Homer and the accordion, a 
week passed over the heads of the outcasts. The sun again forsook 
them, and again from leaden skies the snow-flakes were sifted over 
the land. Day l)y day closer around theiu drew the snowy circle, 
until at last they looked from their prison over drifted walls of daz- 
zling white, that towered twenty feet above their heads. It became 
more and more difficult to replenish their fires, even from the fall- 
en trees beside them, now half hidden in the diifts. And yet no 
one complained. The lovers turned from the dreary prospect and 
looked into each other's eyes, and were happy. Mr. Oakhurst set- 
tled himself coolly to the losing game before him. The Duchess, 
more cheerful than she had been, assumed the care of Piney. Only 
Mother Shipton — once the strongest of the party — seemed to sick- 
en and fade. At midnight on the tenth day she called Oakhurst to 
her side. 



810 TEEASUIIES FROM THE rROSE WORLD. 

"I'm jjjoiii!^," slio said in a voice of quonilous wcivkucss, "but 
don't say anything about it. Don't wakon the kids. Take the 
l)undlo from under my lioad, aiui open it." Mr. Oakhurst did so. 
It contained Mother Shipton's rations for tlie last week, untouched. 
"Give 'em to the chiUl," she said, pointing to the sleeping Piney. 
"You've starved yourself," said the gambler. "That's what they 
call it." said the wonuvn, (juerulously, as she lay dowu again, and, 
turning her face to the wall, passed quietly away. * * * 

III 

Night came, but not Mr. Oakhurst. It brought the storm 
again and the whirling snow. Then the Duchess, feeding the tire, 
found that some one had quietly piled beside the hut enough fuel to 
last a few days bmger. The tears rose to her eyes, but she hid 
them from Piney. 

The women slept but little. In the morning, looking into 
each other's faces, they read their fate. Neither spoke; but Piney, 
acci>pting the position of the stronger, drew near and placed her 
aim around the Duchess' waist. They kept this attitude for the 
rest of the day. That niglit the storm reached its greatest fury, 
and rending asunder the protecting pines, invaded tlie very hut. 

Toward morning they found themselves unable to feed the 
fire, which gradually died away. As the embers slowly blackened, 
the Duchess crept closer to Piney, and broke the silence of many 
hours: "Piney, can you pray'?" 

"No, dear, " said Piney, simply. The Duchess, without knowing 
exactly why, felt relieved, and, putting her head upon Piney's 
shoulder, spoke no more. And so reclining, tlie younger and 
purer pillowing the head of her soiled sister upon her virgin br^ast, 
they fell asleep. 

The wind lulled as if it feared to waken tliem. Feathery 
drifts of snow, shaken from the long pine-boughs, flew like white- 
winged birds, and settJed about them as they slept. The moon, 
through the rifted clouds, looked down upon what had been the 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 341 

camp. But all human stain, all trace of earthly travail, was hid- 
deu beneath tlie spotless mantle mercifully flung from a])ove. 

They slept all that day and the next; nor did they waken when 
voices and footsteps broke the silence of the camp. And when 
])ityinj^ lingers bruslied the snow from their wan faces, you could 
scarcely have told from the equal peace tliat dwelt upon tliem, 
which was she that had sinned. Even the law of Poker Flat 
recognized this, and turned away, leaving them still locked in each 
other's arms. 



Gentle Hands. 



When and where, it matters not now to relate — but once upon 
a time, as I was passing through a thinly peopled district of coun- 
try, night came down upon me, almost unawares. Being on foot, 
I could not hope to gain the village toward which my steps were 
directed, until a late hour; and I therefore preferred scfiking shel- 
ter and a night's lodging at the first humble dwelling that presented 
itself. 

Dusky twilight was giving place to deeper shadows, when I 
found myself in tlie vicinity of a dwelling, fi-om the small uncur- 
tained windows of which tlie light shone with a pleasant promise 
of good cheer and comfort. The house stood within an enclosure, 
and a short distance from the road along which I was moving with 
wearied feet. Turning aside, and passing through the ill-hinig 
gate, I approached the dwelling. Slowly the gate swung on its 
wooden hinges, and the rattle of its latch, in closing, did not dis- 
turb' the .air until I had nearly reached the little porch in front of 
the house, in which a slender girl, who had noticed my entrance, 
stood awaiting my arrival. 

A deep, quick hark answered, almost like an echo, the sound 
of the shutting gate, and, sudden as an apparition, the form of an 
immense dog loomed in the door-way. At the instant when ho 



IM^ TKEASUliES I'EOM THE TUOSK WOULD. 

WIS about, to spring, a light hand avus laid upon his shaggy necJj 
and a knv word spoken. 

*'Cio in, Tiger," sjud tlie girl, not in a voice of autliority, yet in 
hor gentle tones was the oonsoionsness that slie would be obeyed; 
and, as slie spoke, she lightly bore upon the aninuil with her hand, 
and he turned away, and disappeared within the dwelling. "Who's 
that?" A rough voice asked the tpu^stion; and now a heavy dook- 
iug man took the dog's place in the door. 

"How far is it to G ?" I asked, not deeming it best to say, 

in the beginning, that I sought a restiug-placG for the night. 

• •To G " growled the man, but not so harslily as at first. 

"It's good six miles frtnu heiv." 

"A long distance; and I'm a stranger, and on foot," said I. 
"if you can make room for me until morning. I will be very tliank- 
ful.'" 

I saw the girl's hand nvove ipiickly up his arm, until it rested 
on his shoulder, and now she leaned to him still closer. 

"Oome in. "We'll try what can be done for you." Theiv was 
a change in the man's voice that made me wonder. 

I euteivd a large room, in whicli blazed a brisk fiiv. Befoix^ 
the fii"0 sat two stout lads, who turned upon me their hea\y eyes, 
with no very welcome greeting. .V middle-aged woman was stand- 
ing at a table and two children were amusing tliemselves witli a 
kitten on the floor. 

".\ stranger, mother." said the man who had given me so rude 
a giveting at the door; "and ho wants us to let him stay all night." 

The woman looked at me doubtingly for a few moments, and 
then ivplied coldly — 

"We don't keep a public-house." 

**I am awaiv of that, ma'suu," said I; "but night has overt^ikeu 
me, and it's a long way yet to ." 

"Too far for a tiivd man to go on foot," said the master of 
the house, kindly, "so it's no use t^ilking about it, motlier; we 
must give him a IkhI." ♦ 

80 unobtrusivelv that I scaivelv noticed the movement, tJie 



TllEAHIJItKS I'UOM rilK J'JtOHK WOlCLD. 848 

girl had drawn io tho woman 'h Hido. WJiat bIio said to hor I did 
not lioar, for tho bx'icf wordH were uttered in a low voice; but I 
noticed, as whe wpokc, one Hmall, fair hand rested on tho woman 'h 
hand. Wan tliere laaf^ic in tliat f,'ontle toucli? The W(jman'H re- 
pulaive awpect ciianf^od into one of liindly welcome, and who naid : 

"Yes, it'H a lonj,' way to G . I gucHH wo can find a place 

for him." 

Many times more, during' tlmt eveninf/, did I oliHorve tlio 
magic power of that hand and voice — the one gentle, yet potent, 
as the other. 

Oij tlie next morning, breakfaBt being over, I was preparing to 
take my departure, when my host informed me that if 1 would wait 

for half an hour he would give mo a ride in his wagon to G , 

as buHincHH required him to go there. I was very well pleased U) 
accept of the invitjition. \n due time, tho farmer's wagon wjib 
driven into the r<;ad before tlie house, and I was invited to get in. 
I noticed the horse as a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a cer- 
tain air of stubborn endurance. As tlie farm(!r took his sejit by 
my side, the fatnily came to the door to see us off. 

"Dick I" said the farmer in a peremptory voice, giving tlie rein 
ft quick jerk hh be spoke. 

]>ut l)ick moved not a step. 

"Dick! you va;.;;i,bo)i<] ! g(;t up." And the farmer's wiiip 
cracked sliarpJy l>y tiie pony's ear. 

It availed not, howev(;r, tlie second appeal, Dick stood firmly 
disoljedient. Next the whip was brought down upon him wifJi iiu 
impatient hand; but the pony only reared up a little. Fiist aud 
sharp the strokes were next dealt to the number of }ialf-;i-d(jzen. 
The man rniglit as well have beaten his wagf)n, foj' ;i,ll bin rind vvjis 
gained. 

A stout bid no w came out into the road, and catching iJick by tbc; 
bridle, jerked him forward, usirjg, at the same time, the customary 
langujige on sucli occasions, but iJick met this new ally with in- 
creased stubborrmess, planting his forefeet more firmly, and at a 
sharj^er angle witli the ground. The iifipidjeiii l;oy ik^w struck the 



nU ITvEASUBES I'KO.M TllK niOSK ^Y0UL1"). 

pony on iho siilo of liis hoiul with his I'hnohoil hanil, and jorkoil 
(.•iiu'lly lit his biidlo. It. uviuUhI nothing, howovor: .l>iok was uoi, to 
hi< wrouj^lit upon by nny snoh arj?unu>nts. 

"hon't do so, ,lohn!" I tnrnoil my hoad as tlio maiden's swcot 
voiiH< ivurhiul my oar. Slio was passin;:; throu!:!:li tho s^ato into tho 
road, and. in tho ni>\t uiomont, had takon hold of tho lad and 
drawn hiiu away front tho animal. No str*>ngUi was exerted in tliis; 
she took hold of his arm. and ho ohoyed hor wish as readily as if 
he \ii\d no thoui^'ht hoyond her f::ratitioat.ion. 

And mnv that soft hand was laid gent.ly on tlio pony's nook, 
and a siujrK' low wi>rd spoken. How inst^inUy woro Uio tense mus- 
ivles relaxoil --how (piiekly the stnhh(>rn air vanished. 

"Poor Ihek!" said the maidiMi, as sho stroked his noek liLjhtJy, 
or si>ftJy patted it witli a. ohild-like hand. 

"Now, go along, yon pnn'oking follow!" she added, in a half- 
ohiding, yet atYeotiv)nate voioe, as she drew up the hridle. The 
pony turned toward hor, and ruhbod liis hoail against lu>r arm for 
an instant or two; then, [u-ioking up his ears, he started otY at a 
light. olu>erf\d trot, and went on his way as freely as if no silly 
orotehet had over entered his stnbborn bniin. 

"What a wonderfnl power that hand possesses!" said I, speak- 
ing to my eompanii>n, as wo nnle away. 

He looked at me (ov a moment as if my remark had ooeasionod 
surprise. Then a light eame into his eonntenanee. and he said, 
briotly..- 

" She's good! I'iVerybody anil everything loves hor." 

Was t;hat, indeeil, the seeret of her power? Was the quahty 
of her soul pereeived in tlu> impi-ession of hor hajtid, oven by bnite 
lu>asts! The father's explanation was, doubtless, tJie true one. 
Yet, have T, ever sinoe wi>nderiHi, and still do wonder, at the 
piWonoy whioh lay in that maiden's magie toueh. I have seen 
somethiujt o{ the t^anie power, showing itself in tJu> loving and the 
goiul, but never io the extent as instanced in her, whom, for want 
of a better namo. I must still call "(ioii(I(> h-md." 



'niKAHlJIlKH FIIOM 'I'lIM l'lH)H\<) WOULD. 845 



The Ariel among the Shoals. 

TJio oxiriiordijmry acUviLy of (iril'liUi, wliicli comrnuiiiciiiod 
itwolf wiUi |)n)Ui|)(,i(,ii(lo io Uio wliole crow, whh producuid \ty n, hikI- 
(Icii iilliOriU/iou in Uio w(Jn,Ui(;r. In placo of tlio vvoU-doniiod ntroiik 
uloii}^ tlie hori/oij, thai liaH boon alroady doHcrihod, an iniMKinHo 
l)ody of miwty lij^ht appeared l,o be movinfj; in with rapidity from 
tlie ()(;(!an, wliilc a diHtiiicI, hut (hutjint roaring, ii.nMoiinccd the Hurc 
aj)pr()iicii of tli(! t(!nij)(!Ht tliat Jiad ho long troiihJod the wat(;rH. 
J^jvon (iriflith, wliiJe thundering liis ordora through the trumpet, 
and nrgin(,' tlie men, hy liiH crieH, to expedition, w(»uld jjiiuho for 
iuHtiuitn to eant »,nxioiiH gliuiceti in the (hrciction (A' the coming 
Htonn, !i,iid th(i hiecsH of the H;i,ih)rH who lii.y on th(! yn,niH vve.re 
tiinied i)iHtinetively towiu-d the Hiime (jU!i,rl,ei' of tJie heaveiiH, 
vvliih) t!i(!y knotted the reef pointH, or pji,KH(!d the ganketH that were 
to conlino the unruly e;iiiv;i,H to the proHcribed limitw. 

The ])ilot alone, in that confused and huHy tlirong, where 
voice roHe above voice, and cry eclioed ciy in quick Hucc(;HHion, ap- 
peared aH if lie lield no interent in tlu; im|)ortant stake. Willi his 
(!y(fH Htfiadily fixed on the approacliing mist, and bin arnjH fold<;d 
togetli(!r in coni[)OHure, he stood calmly awaiting the renult. 

'Dm! HJiip h;ul fiillen off with her broadside to the sea, ii,nd was 
hec/ome unnuinii,geii,bl(!, and th<! nails were alnifidy brought into the 
folds necesBary to her se<;urity, wh<;n the qnick iiiid lie;i,vy flutt(!r- 
ing of ciuiviis was thrown ii,cro.ss th(! wat<!r with ii,ll the gloomy 
and (;hilliiig sensiitions thii,t su(;h sounds produce, where d)i,rl<neHS 
and danger unite to jippsill tli<; hcjimiui. 

"TIk! Kchooner has it!" cried (Jiillith ; "l>ii,rnHtii,ble has held on, 
lil((! liims(;lf to the last moment (lod send that the srpiall hiave 
him cloth enough to keep him from the fihore!" 

"Ilis sails are ensily handlcMl," tin; ( ommiinder obsei'vcul, "and 
she must b<; over the [)rincip!iJ diinger. We are falliiig off before 
it, Mr. Ciray; shall we try a cast of the l(;ad?" 



816 TEEASUBES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. 

The pilot turned from his contemplative posture ami moved 
slowly across the deck before he returned any reply to this question 
— like a man who not only felt that everytliing depended on him- 
self, but that he was equal to the emergency. 

"'Tis unnecessary," he at length said; "'twould be certain de- 
struction to be taken aback, and it is difficult to say, within several 
points, how the wind may strike us." 

"'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith; "for here it comes, and 
in right earnest!" 

The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, heard at 
hand, and the words were hardly passed the hps of the young heu- 
teuant before the vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, 
as she began to move through the water, rose again majestically to 
her upright position, as if saluting, like a courteous champion, the 
powerful antagonist with which she was about to contend. Not 
another minute elapsed before the ship was throwing the waters 
aside with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, was brought 
as near to the desired course as the direction of the wind would 
allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards gradually subsided, and 
the men slowly descended to the deck, all straining their eyes to 
pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped, and some shaking 
their heads in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions 
they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for tlie fury 
of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced, in that 
gjiUant frigate, as not to know that they as yet only felt tlie infant 
efforts of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in 
power, though so gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mari- 
ners began to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to 
be realized. During this short interval of imcertainfcy, no other 
sounds were heard than the whistling of the breeze, as it passed 
quickly tliTOUgh the mass of rigging that belonged to the vessel, 
and the dashing of the spray that began to fly from her bows like 
the foam of a cataract. 

"It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in 
that moment of doubt and anxiety; "but it is no more than a cap- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 347 

ful of wind after all. Give us elbow room and the right canvas, 
Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the ship hke a gentleman's yacht in thi.i 
breeze." 

"Will she stay, think yc, under this sail?" said the low voico 
of the stranger. 

"She will do all that man in reason can ask of wood and iron," 
returned the lieutenant; "but the vessel don't float the ocean that 
Avill tack under double-reefed topsails alone against a heavy sea. 
Help her with the courses, pilot, and you'll see her come round 
like a dancing-master." 

"Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned the man 
who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to th'^ 
weather gangway of the vessel, where he stood in silence, looking 
ahead of the ship with an air of singular coolness and abstraction. 

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frig- 
ate, when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the 
gale had passed over, it was succeeded })y a faint light that was a 
good deal aided by the glittering foam of the waters, which now 
broke in white curls around the vessel in every direction. The land 
could be faintly discerned, rising like a heavy bank of black fog 
above the margin of the waters, and was only distinguisliable from 
the heavens by its deeper gloom and obscurity. Tlic last rope was 
coiled and deposited in its proper place by the seamen, and for sev- 
eral minutes the stillness of death pervaded the crowded decks. It 
was evident to every one that their ship was dashing at a prodig- 
ious rate through the waves; and, as she was approaching, with 
such velocity, the quarter of the bay where the shoals and dangers 
were known to bo situated, nothing but the ]ial)its of the most exact 
discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and men 
within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson 
was heard calling to the pilot. 

"ShaU I send ahand into the chains, Mr. Gray," he said, "and 
try our water? — " 

"Tack your ship, sir, tack your ship; I would sec how she 
works l^efore we reach the point where she must behave well, or wo 
perish." 



8i8 



TllEASUUES JTvOM THE PliOSE WORLD. 



Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced 
the quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the 
cheering order that called each man to his station to perform the 
desired evolution. The confident assurances which the yoimg offi- 
cer had given to the pilot respectiilg the qualities of his vessel, and 
his own ahihty to manage her, were fully realized by the result. 
The helm was no sooner put a-lee, than the huge ship bore up gal- 
lantly against the wind, and, dashing directly through the waves, 
threw the foam high into the air as she looked boldly into the very 
eye of the ^^^nd, and then, yielding gracefully to its power, she fell 
otf on the other tack \\4th her head pointed from those dangerous 
shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying 
velocity. The heavy yards swung round as if they had been vanes 
to indicate the cmTents of the air, and in a few moments the frigate 
again moved with stately progress through the water, leaving the 
rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but advancing 
toward those that ofifered equal danger on the other. 

During this time, the sea was becoming more agitated, and the 
violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no 
longer whistled amid the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to 
howl surlily as it passed the complicated machinery that the frigate 
obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white surges rose 
above the heavy billows, and the very air was ghttering -with the 
light that was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded each 
moment more and more before the storm, and, in less than half an 
hour from the time that she had hfted her anchor, she was driven 
along with tremendous fury by the full power of a gale of wind. 
Still, the hardy and experienced mariners who directed her move- 
ments, held her to the course that was necessary to their preserva- 
tion, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown 
pilot, those orders that turu^ed her in the narrow channel where 
safety was alone to be found. 

So far, the performance of his duty appeared easy to the 
stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still, calm 
tones that formed so remarkable a contrast to the responsibihty of 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. B49 

his situation. But when tlie land was becoming dim, in distance 
as well as darkness, and the agitated sea was only to be discovered 
as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous 
roaring of the tempest with the sounds of his voice, seeming to 
shake off his apathy and rouse himself to the occasion. 

"Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," he cried; 
"here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best 
quarter-master of your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand 
by him and see that he gives us the right water." 

"I will take that office on myself," said the captain; "pass a 
light into the weather main-chains." 

"Standby your braces!" exclaimed the pilot with startling 
quickness. "Heave away that lead!" 

These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and 
every officer and man stood in fearful silence at his assigned station 
awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the quarter-master at the 
gun gave out his orders to the men at the wheel in deeper and 
hoarser tones than usual, as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and 
order of tlie vessel. 

While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing 
cry of the leadsman, as he called, "By the mark seven!" rose above 
the tempest, crossed over the decks, and appeared to pass away to 
leeward, borne on the blast like the warnings of some water-spirit. 

"'Tis well," returned the pilot, calmly; "try it again." 

The short pause was succeeded by another cry, "And a half- 



"Slie shoals! she shoals!" exclaimed Griffith; "keep her a good 



five I 

full." 

"Ay! you must hold the vessel in command, now," said the 
pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling in critical mo- 
ments, because they seem to denote most preparation and care. 

The third call of "By the deep four!" was followed by a prompt 
direction from the stranger to tack. 

Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in issuing 
the necessary orders to execute this manoeuver. 



850 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into which 
she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails were shaJdng 
violently, as if to release tlieniselves from their confinement while 
the ship stemmed the billows, when the well-known voice of tlie sail- 
ing-master Avas heard shouting from tlie forecastle — "Breakers! 
breakers, dead ahead!" 

This appalling sound seemed yet to be hngeriug about the 
ship, when a second voice cried — "Breakers on our lee-bow!" 

"We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr. Gray," said the com- 
mander. "She loses her way; perhaps an anchor might hold her." 

"Clear away that best-bower!" shouted Griffith through his 
trumpet. 

"Hold on!" cried the pilot, in a' voice that reached tlie very 
hearts of all wdio heard him; "hold on everything." 

The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger who 
thus dotied the discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded — 
"Who is it that dares to countermand my orders'? Is it not enough 
that you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep 
her tliere? If another word — " 

"Peace, Mr. Griffith," interrupted the captain, bending from tlie 
rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind, and adding a 
look of wildness to the hagganl face that he exhibited by the light 
of his lantern; "yield the trumpet to Mr. Gray; he alone can 
save us." 

Griffith threw his speaking trumpet on the deck, and, as he 
walked proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feeling — "Then all 
is lost, indeed, and, among the rest, the foolish hopes with which I 
visited this coast." 

There was, however, no time for reply; the ship had been rap- 
iilly running into the wind, and, as tlie efforts of the crew were 
paralyzed by the contratlictory orders tliey had heard, she gradually 
lost her way, and in a few seconds all her sails were taken aback. 

Before the crew understood their situation the pilot had applied 
tlie trumpet to his mouth, and, in a voice tliat rose above tlie tem- 
pest, he thundered forth his orders. Each command was given dis- 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 8/5l 

tincfcly, and with a precision that showed him to be master of his 
profession. The helm was kept fast, the head yards swung up 
heavily against the wind, and the vessel was soon whirling round 
on her heel with a retrograde movement. 

Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that the 
pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only 
method that promised to extricate the vessel from her situation. 
He was young, impetuous, and proud; but he was also generous. 
Forgetting his resentment and his mortification, he rushed forward 
among the men, and, by his presence and example, added certainty 
to the experiment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale, and 
bowed her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring 
its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat violently 
against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from her usual 
manner of moving. 

The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and 
calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear; and the 
obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding in despite of the 
tempest, as if they handled the toys of their childhood. When 
the ship had fallen off dead before the wind, her head sails were 
shaken, her after-yards trimmed, and her helm shifted before she 
had time to run upon the danger that had threatened, as well to 
leeward as to windward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her gov- 
ernment, threw her bows up gracefully toward the wind again, and, 
as her sails were trimmed, moved out from amongst the dangerous 
shoals in which she had been embayed, as steadily and swiftly as 
she had approached them. 

A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the accom- 
plishment of this nice manoeuver, but there was no time for the 
usual expressions of surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet, 
and continued to lift his voice amid the bowlings of the blast, 
whenever prudence or skill directed any change in the management 
of the ship. For an hour longer, there was a fearful struggle for 
their preservation, the channel becoming at each step more com- 
plicated, and the shoals tliickening around the mariners on every 



852 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WOEiD. 

side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick eye of the pilot 
seemed to pierce the darkness with a keenness of vision that exceeded 
human power. It was apparent to all in the vessel, that they were 
under the guidance of one who understood the navigation thor- 
oughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviWng confidence. 
Again and again tlie frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on 
shoals, where the sea was covered with foam, and where destruc- 
tion would have been as siulden as it was certain, when the clear 
voice of tlie stranger was heard warning them of the danger, and 
inciting them to their duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to 
his government, and during those anxious moments, when she was 
dashing the waters aside, thro^ving the spray over her enormous 
yards, each ear would hsten eagerly for those sounds that had ob- 
tained a command over the crew, that can only be acquired, under 
such circumstances, by great steadiness and consummate skill. 
The ship was recovering from the inaction of changing her course 
in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often, when the 
pUot for the first time adihressed the commander of the frigate, who 
still continued to superintend the all-important duty of tlie leads- 
man. 

"Now is the pinch, "he said; "and if the ship behaves well, we 
are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless." 

The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this 
portentous notice, and, c:illing to his first heutenant, requii'ed of 
the stranger an explanation of his warning. 

"See you yon hght on the southern headland?" returned the 
pilot; "you may know it from the star near it by its sinking, at 
times, in the ocean. Now observe the hummock, a little north of 
it, looking like a shadow in the horizon — 'tis a hill far inland. If 
we keep that light open from the hill, we shall do well — but if not, 
we surely go to pieces." 

"Let us tack again!" exclaimed the heutenant. 

The pilot shook his head, as he repUed — "There is no more 
tacking or box-hauhng to be done to-night. We have barely room 
to pass out of the shoals on this course, and if we can weather the 



TEEASURES FllOM THE PROSE WORLD. 853 

'Devil's Grip,' we clear their outermost point — but if not, as I said 
before, there is but an alternative." 

"If we had beaten out the way wo entered," exclaimed Griffith, 
"we should have done well." 

"Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," returned the 
pilot calmly. "Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a 
mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough 
to keep her up to the wind; we want both jib and mainsail." 

" 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tempest! " 
observed the doubtful captain. 

"It must be done," returned the collected stranger; 'we i)erisli 
without, — see 1 the light already touches the edge of the hummock ; 
the sea casts us to leeward! " 

"It shall be done!" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from 
the hand of the pilot. 

The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as 
issued, and, everything being ready, the enormous folds of the 
mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant 
when the result was doubtful; the tremendous threshing of the 
heavy sails seeming to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the 
ship to her center; but art and strength prevailed, and graduiilly 
the canvas was distended, and, bellying as it filled, was drawn 
down to its usual place by the power of a hundred men. The ves- 
sel yielded to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it 
like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure 
was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, that seemed to 
burst from his inmost soul. 

"She feels it! she springs her luff! observe," he said,"the light 
opens from the hummock already; if she wiU only bear her can- 
vas, we shall go clear! " 

A report like that of a cannon interrupted his exclamation, 
and something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before 
the wind from the head of the ship, tiU it was driven into the 
gloom far to the leeward. 

"'Tis the jib blown from the bolt-ropes," said the commander 

23 



354 TllEASURES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

of the frigute. " This is uo time to spread hght cluck, — but the 
maiusail may stand it yet." 

" The sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the heutenant; 
"but that mast springs hke a piece of steel." 

" Silence, aU! " cried the pilot. " Now, gentlemen, we shtill 
soon know our fate. Let her luff, — ^luff you can !" 

This warning effectiially closed aU discourse, and the hardy 
mariners, knowing that they had ah-eady done all in the power of 
man to insure their safety, stood in breathless anxiety, awaiting 
the result. At a short distance ahead of them, the whole ocean 
was white with foam, and the waves, instead of roUing on in regu- 
lar succession, appeared to be tossing about in mad gambols. A 
single streak of dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, 
could be discerned running into this chaos of water; but it was 
soon lost to the eye amid the confusion of the disturbed element. 
Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily than before, 
being brought so near the wdnd as to keep her sails touching. The 
pilot silently proceeded to the wheel, and with his own hands 
he imdertook the steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from 
the frigate to interrupt the homd tumult of the ocean, and she 
entered the channel among the breakers with the silence of a des- 
perate calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled away to 
leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they 
supposed the vessel past the danger; but breaker after breaker 
would still rise before them, following each other into the general 
mass to check their exultation. Occasionally the fluttering of the 
sails would be heard; and when the looks of the startled seamen 
were turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its 
spokes, mth his quick eye glancing from the water to the canvas. 
At length the ship reached a point where she appeared to be nish- 
ing directly into the jaws of destruction, when suddenly her coiu'se 
was changed, and her head receded rapiiUy from the wind. At the 
same instant the voice of the pilot was heard shouting, — 
" Square away the yards 1 — in mainsail ! " 
A general burst from the crew echoed, " Square away the 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 355 

yards!" an J quick as tiioi.glit the frigate was seen gliding along 
the channel before the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell on 
the foam, which seemed like clouds driving in the heavens, and 
directly the gallant vessel issued from her perils, and rose and fell 
on the heavy waves of the open sea. 



The Bald-headed Man. 

The other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small 
boy, boarded a train at Little Rock. The woman had a care-worn 
expression hanging over her face like a tattered veil, and many of 
the rapid questions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious 
sighs. 

"Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't he? " point- 
ing to a bald-headed man sitting just in front of them. 

"Hush!" 

"Why must I hush? " 

After a few moments' silence: "Ma, what's the matter with 
that man's head? " 

"Hush, I teU you. He's bald." 

"What's bald?" 

"His head hasn't got any hair on it." 

"Did it come off? " 

"I guess so." 

"Will mine come off? " 

"Some time, may be." 

"Then rU be bald, won't I?" 

"Yes." 

"WiUyou care?" 

"Don't ask so many questions." 

After another silence, the boy exclaimed: "Ma, look at that fly 
on that man's head. " 

"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home." 



So6 TEEASURES FROM THE PEOSE WOKLP. 

"Look! There's another fly. Look :ii "em fight: look at 
'em I " 

'*M:tilam.'* Siud the msui. puttiug i\side a uews^paper and look- 
ing axoiiud, "what's the matter with that yoimg hyena?" 

The woman blii&hevi, stiunmered out something, and attemptetl 
to smooth back tlie boy's hair. 

'One fly. two flies, tlixee flies," said the boy, innocently, fol- 
lowing with his eyes a basket of oranges carrieil by a newslvy. 

"Here, you yoimg heiigehog," Siiid the kvld-headeil m^in, '"if 
you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put yoti off the train." 

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do. boxeil the 
boy's ears, and then gave him an ortvnge to keep him from crying. 

"Ma, have I got r^ marks on my head? " 

"I'll whip you again, if you don't hush.'' 

"Mister." Siud tlie lx\v. after a short silence, "does it hurt to 
be biUd-headed? '' 

"Youngster." Siiid the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you 
a quarter." 

The boy promised, and the money was paid over. 

The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. 

"This is my bald-headed money." said the boy. "When I get 
KUd-headeil. I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald- 
headevi men got money? " 

The annoyed man threw down his papex, arose, and exclaimed : 
"Madam, heivafter when you travel, leave that young gv^rilla at 
home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very 
cruel for calling the bears to kill the children to making sport of 
lus head, but now I am forv^ini to believe that he did a Christian 
act. If yv>ur lK>y had been in the crv^wd. he would have died first. 
If I can't firvd another seat on this train. Til lide on the cow- 
catcher rather than rem.^ here." 

"The bald-headed man is gone." said the boy: and as the 
woman leuied back a tir^ sigh escaped from her Hps. 



TBEASUllES FliOM THE PilOaE WORLD. 35? 



An Evening "Walk in Virginia. 

In tnith, the little, solitary nook into which I am just now 
thrown, bears an aspect so interesting, that it is calculated to call 
up the most touchingly pleasing exertions in the minds of those 
who love to indulge in the contemplation of Ixjautiful scenes. We- 
are the sons of earth, and the indissoluble kindred bctweo}i nat- 
ure and man is demonstrated by our sense of her beauties. I 
shall not soon forget last evening, which Oliver and myself spent 
at this place. It was such as can never be descril^ed, — I will 
therefore not attempt it ; but it was still as the sleep of innocence, 
pure as ether, and bright as immortality. Having traveled only 
fourteen miles that day, I did not feel as tired as usual, and, after 
supper, strolled out alone along the windings of a little stream 
about twenty yards wide, that skirts a narrow strip of green 
meadows, between the brook and the high mountain at a little dis- 
tance. 

You wiU confess my landscapes are well watered, for cveiy 
one has a river. But such is the case in this region, where all tlie 
passes of the mountains are made by little rivers, that in i)rocess 
of time have labored through, and left a space for a road on their 
banks. If nature will do these things, I can't help it, — not I. In 
the course of the ramble, the moon rose over the mountain to the 
eastward, which, being just by, seemed to bring the planet equally 
near; and the bright eyes of the stars began to ghsten, as if weep- 
ing the dews of evening. I knew not the name of one single star. 
But what of that? It is not necessary to be an astronomer to 
contemplate with sublime emotions the glories of the sky at night, 
and the countless wonders of the universe. 

ThcHO earthly KodfatherH of heaven's ligbtn, 

That fcivc a name to every fixed Htar, 
Have no more profit of their livintc ni)?htH, 

Than thowe that walk and wot not what they are. 



858 TEEASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Men may be too wise to ■wonder at auytliiug, as tlicy may be 
too ignorant to see anything without wondering. 

There is reason, also, to beheve that astronomers may be 
sometimes so taken up with measuring tlie distance and magnitude 
of the stars, as to lose, in the intense minuteness of calculation, 
that noble expansion of feeling and intellect combined, which lifts 
from nature up to its great First Cause. As respects myself, I 
know-no more of the planets than the man in the moon. I only 
contemplate them as unapproachable, unextinguishable fires, glit- 
tering afar olT, in those azure fields whose beauty and splendor 
have pointed them out (is the abode of the Divinity; as such, they 
form bright links in the chain of thought that leads directly to a 
contemplation of the Maker of heaven and earth. Nature is, in- 
deed, the only temple worthy of the Deity. There is a mute 
eloquence in her smile; a majestic severity in her frown; a divine 
charm in her harmony ; a spcecliless energy in her silence ; a voice 
in her thunders, that no reflecting being can resist. It is in such 
scenes and seasons, that the heart is deepest smitten with the 
power and goodness of Providence, and that the soul demonstrates 
its capacity for maintaining an existence independent of matter, 
by abstracting itself from the body, and expatiating alone in the 
boundless regions of the past and the future. 

As I continued strolling forward, there gradually came a per- 
fect calm, — and even the aspen-tree whispered no more. But it 
was not the death-like calm of a Winter's night, when the north- 
Avest wind grows quiet, and tlie frosts begin in silence to forge fet- 
ters for the running brooks, and the gentle current of life that 
flows through the veins of the forest. The voice of man and beast 
was indeed unheard; but the river murmured, and the insects 
chirped in the mild Summer evening. There is something sepul- 
chral in the repose of a Winter night; but in the genial seasons of 
the year, though the night is the emblem of repose, it is the repose 
of the couch, not of the tomb; nature still breathes in the buzz 
of insects, the whisiiorings of the forests, and the murmur of the 
running brooks. We know she will awake in the morning, with 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 859 

her smiles, her bloom, her zephyrs, and warbling birds. "In such 
a night as this," if a man loves any human being in this wide 
world, he will find it out, for there will his thoughts first center. 
If he has in store any sweet, or bitter, or bitter-sweet recollections, 
which are lost in the bustle of the world, they wiU come without 
being caUed. If, in his boyish days he wrestled, and wrangled, 
and rambled with, yet loved, some chubby boy, he will remember 
the days of his childhood, its companions, cares, and pleasures. 
If, ill his days of romance, he used to walk of evenings with some 
blue-eyed, musing, melancholy maid, whom the ever-rolling wave 
of hfe dashed away from him forever, he will recall her voice, her 
eye, and her form. If any heavy and severe disaster has fallen 
on his riper manhood, and turned the future into a gloomy and 
unpromising wilderness, he will feel it bitterly at such a time. Or, 
if it chance that he is grown an old man, and hvcd to see all that 
owned his blood, or shared his affections, struck down to the earth 
hke dead leaves in Autumn, in such a night he will call their dear 
shades around, and wish himself a shadow. 




yOO TEEASUllES rilOM THE PKOSE WOKLD. 



GEORGE BANCROFT. 



GEORGE BANCROFT, the eminent American historian, 
was born at Worcester, Massachusetts, October 3, 1800, 
anil graduated at Harvard College in his seventeenth 
year. " His college course was but the beginning of his ed- 
ucation. He sailed to Europe, and pursued a. groat variety 
of studies for five years under the most eniinont professors, 
at Gottingen, Berlin, Heidelberg, Paris, and in several Italian 
cities, forming acquaintances, also, with many c)f the most 
famous scholars and savants.'' Thus his mind was richly 
furnished with the treasures of ancient literature, together 
with the modern metaphysical culture of the German mii- 
versities. Upon his return to America, Mr. Bancroft was 
appointed Tutor of Greek at Harvard, He was also con- 
nected ^Yith the Round Hill Classical School at Northampton, 
for a. slu>rt time. 

Bancroft's literary record is an important one. It com- 
menced while he was abroad, by the philosophical summaries 
of Roman history and policy, and of the literature of Cior- 
many, whirh ho published in America shortly after his return. 
" A Yohnno of poems, published at Boston in 1823, witnesses 
to his poetical enthusiasm for the arts and nature, as hw 
traversed the ruins of Italy and the sublime scenery of Switzr 
erland." Before his twonty-fourth year, he had written u 
peries of poetical translations of some of the chief minojr 




GEOnOE BANCROFT. 



TREASUEES FllOM THE PROSE WORLD. 8G1 

poems of Schiller, Goethe, and other German authors. These 
translations were first published in the " North American lie- 
view, " and afterward in Bancroft's Collection of Miscellanies. 

The great work of Bancroft's life is his History of the 
United States from the Discovery of the American Continent, 
the first volume of which appeared in 1834. His Coloniza- 
tion of the United States, published in 1834, and History of 
the Revolution, pul)lished in 1852, were included in his His- 
tory of the United States. Up to the present, twelve volumes 
of his history have been issued, bringing the work down to 
1 78J). In the preparation of his work, he was greatly aided 
1)y the free access to the State Paper Office of Great Britain, 
France and other European states. In 185.5 Bancroft pul)hshed 
a volume of Literary and Historical Miscellanies. While this 
work is full of merit, his history remains the greatest work 
of his life, and it proves him to be the greatest of American 
historians. 

Bancroft's political record is also an important part of 
his life work. In 1838 President Van Buren appointed him 
to the collectorship of the port of Boston. In 1845 Presi- 
dent Polk invited him to a seat in the Cabinet as Secretary 
of the Navy. His customary energy and efficiency made him 
a valuable member of the Cabinet. In 1840 Bancroft was 
appointed Minister Plenipotentiary to Great Britain. This 
distinguished position he held till 1849, when he returned to 
the United States and became a resident of the city of New 
York. In 1 867 he was appointed Minister to Berlin, a po- 
sition he held for several years. 



862 TREASURES FROM T"!hE PROSE WORLD. 



The Aborigines of America. 

Ou the surreiuler of Acadia to Euglaud, the lakes, the rivulets, 
the granite ledges, of Cape Breton, — of which the iiTCgular outhne 
is guarded by reefs of rocks, and notched and almost rent asunder 
by the constant action of the sea, — were immediately occupied as 
a province of France; and, in 171-4, fugitives from Newfoundland 
and Acadia built their huts jxlong its coasts, wherever safe inlets' 
invited fishermen to spread their flakes, and the soil to plant fields 
and gardens. In a few years, the fortifications of Louisburg 
began to rise, — the key to the St. Lawrence, the bulwark of the 
French fisheries, and of French commerce in North America. 
From Cape Breton, tlie dominion of Louis XIV extended up the 
St. Lawrence to Lake Superior, and from that lake, through the 
whole course of the Mississippi, to the Gidf of Mexico and the 
Bay of Mobile. Just beyond that bay began the posts of the 
Spaniards, which continued round the shores of Florida to the 
fortress of St. Augustine. The Enghsh colonies skii-ted the 
Atlantic, extending £i-om Florida to the eastern verge of Nova 
Scotia. Thus, if on the east the Strait of Canso di"s-ided France 
and England, if on the south a narrow range of forests intervened 
between England and Spain, everywhere else the colonies of the 
rival nations were separated from each other by tribes of the 
natives. The Europeans had estabUshed a vn.de circle of planta- 
tions, or, at least, of posts; they had encompassed the aborigines 
that dwelt east of the Mississippi; and, however eager might now 
be the passion of the intruders for carving their emblems on trees, 
and desiguatiug their Hues of anticipated empire on maps, their 
respective settlements were kept asunder by an unexplored wilder- 
ness, of which savages were the occupants. 

The great strife of France and England for American terri- 
tory could not but involve the ancient possessors of the continent 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 3G8 

in a series of couflicts, which have, at last, banished the Indian 
tribes from the earher hmits of our repubhc. The picture of the 
unequal contest inspires a compassion that is honorable to human- 
ity. The weak demand sympathy. If a melancholy interest 
attaches to the fall of a hero who is overpowered by superior force, 
shall we not drop a tear at the fate of nations, whoso defeat fore- 
boded the exile, if it did not, indeed, shadow forth the dechne and 
ultimate extinction, of a race? 

The earliest books on America contained tales as wild as 
fancy could invent or credulity repeat. The land was peopled with 
pygmies and with giants ; the tropical forests were said to conceal 
tribes of negroes; and tenants of the hyperborean regions were 
white, like the polar bear or the ermine. Jacques Cartier had 
'heard of a nation that did not eat; and the pedant Lafitau be- 
heved, if not in a race of headless men, at least, that there was a 
nation of men with the head not rising above the shoulders. 

The first aspect of the original inhabitants of the United 
States was uniform. Between the Indians of Florida and Canada, 
the difference was scarcely perceptible. Their manners and insti- 
tutions, as well as their organization, had a common pliysiognomy; 
and, before their languages began to be known, there was no safe 
method of grouping the nations into families. But when the vast 
variety of dialects came to be compared, there were found, east of 
the Mississijipi, not more than eight radically distinct languages, 
of which five stiU constitute the speech of powerful communities, 
and three are known only as memorials of tribes that have almost 
disappeared from the earth. 

The study of the structure of the dialects of the red men' 
sheds light on the inquiry into their condition. Language is their 
oldest monument, and the record and image of their experience. 
No savage horde has been caught with it in a state of chaos, or as 
if just emerging from the rudeness of undistinguishable sounds. 
No American language bears marks of being an arbitrary aggrega- 
tion of separate parts; but each is possessed of an entire organi- 
zation, having unity of character, and controlled by exact rules. 



}UU TREASURES FROM THE TKOSE "WORLD. 

Eaoli appears, not as a slow formation by painful prooossos of 
invcutdon, but as a porfoot whole, springing dii"eetly from tlie 
powers of man. A savage physiognomy is impvintotl on the dia- 
leet of the dweller in the wilderness; but each dialeet is still not 
oidy free from confusion, but is iihuost absolutely free from iri-egu- 
larities. aiul is pervaded ;uid governed by undeviating laws. As 
tlie bee builds his cells regularly, yet without the recognition of 
tJio rules of geometxy, so tlie unretleeting sa\iige, in tlio use of 
Avords, had rule and method and completeness. His speech, like 
everything else, underwent change; but human pride errs in believ- 
ing tJuit the art of cultivated man was needed to ivsolve it into its 
elements, and give to it new forms, befoi'e it could fultill its oftice. 
Kach American language was competent of itself, witJiout improve- 
ment fnun scholars, to exemplify every rule of the logician, and 
give uttenvnce to every passion. Each tlialect tJuit hiis been 
analyzed has been found to he rich in derivatives and compounds, 
in combinations and forms. As certainly as every plant which diinvs 
juices fron\ the earth has ivots and sap vessels, bark and leaves, 
so certivinly each limguage has its complete organization, — in chid- 
ing the same parts of speech, though some of them nniy lie 
concealed in nmtual coalitions. Human consciousness and human 
si^ecii exist everywhei"C, indissolubly united. A tribe has no more 
been found witliout an organized language, than without eyesight 
or memory. 

As tiie Luiguages of tlie American tribes weit? limited by the 
materiiU world, so, in private* life, the senses held dominion. The 
passion of the savage was liberty: he demanded license to gratifj' 
his animal instincts. To act for himself, to follow the propensi- 
ties of his uatuiv, seemed his s}-stem of morals. The supivmacy 
of conscience, tJie rights of ivason, wei-e not subjects of iYtle4.'tion 
to those who had no name for continence. The idea of chastity, 
as a social duty, was but feebly developed t\moug tliem, and tlie 
obsen'er of their customs would, at first, believe them to have 
been ignorsmt of restniint. If '' the kindly tlames of nature 
buMied in wild humanity," their love never became a frenzy or a 
devotion; for indulgence destroyed its energy and its purity. 



TREASUllES FBOM THE PROSE WOUM). {J(55 

And yot no nation Iuih over boon fonnd witlioiit Honio pnicljciil 
confebHion of tlio duty of Ho]f-doiiial. "God liiiUi i)liiiiiod in Uio 
hearts of the wild(;Ht of ilio houh of nion a high find liouoriddo 
OHt(!(;ni of tlio niaiTiag(!, inHoiiincli tliat t]i<;y uiiivorHally Hnl)rnit 
unto it, aiid liold its violation al)orriina))]<!." Noithtir inif,'lit iruir- 
riages he contracted hotwcon kindred of near degree; the Iroquois 
might choose a wife of tlio same tribe with himself, but not of the 
same caljin; the Algonquin must look l)oyond tlioso who used tlio 
same totew, or family symbol ; the Cherokee would marry at once 
a mother and her daughter, but would never marry his own imme- 
diate kindred. 

On forming an engagement, the bridegroom, or, if he wfjro 
poor, his friends and neighliors, made a present to the bride's 
father, of whom no dowry was expected. The acceptance of the 
presents pcrfoetod the contract; tlio wife was purchased; and, for 
a season, at least, tlio husband, surrendering his gains as a hunter 
to her family, bad u, lioineiti her father's lodge. 

r>iit, oven in marriage, the Indian a])horred constraint; and, 
fnjiii l^'lorida to the St. Ijawronco, })olyganiy was permitted, tliough 
at tli(! north it was not cf)rrinio(i. In a happy union, affection was 
fostered !ind ))rf!Sorvod; and the wildor7)ess could show wigwams 
where "(;oupl(;s had lived together thirty, forty years." Yet love 
did not always light his hiippiest torch at the nuptials of the diil- 
dron of nature, and marriage among the forests had its sorrows 
and its crimes. Tlio infidelities of the husband sometimes drove 
the helpless wife to suicide; the faithless wife had no prote(;tor; 
her husl^and insulted or disfigured her at will; and death for 
adultery was unrevenged. Divorce, also, was permitted, even for 
occasions bcisid^'S a,diiltory; it took place Avithout ffirmality, by a 
simple sopara,tion or desertif)n, and, whore there was no offspring, 
was of easy occurren<;o. Children were the strongest bond; for, if 
the mother was discarded, it was an unwritten law of the red man 
that she should h(;rself retain those whom she had borne or 
nursed. 

On quitting the cradle, tlie children are loft nearly naked in 



866 TBEASUEES FEOM THE TEOSE WOELD. 

tlic cabiu, to grow liard}', aud loam the use of their limbs. Juve- 
nile sports are the same everywhere ; children invent them for 
themselves; and the traveler, who finds everywhere in the wide 
world the same games, may rightly infer, that the Father of the 
groat human family himself instructs the innocence of childhood 
in its amusements. There is no domestic government ; the young 
do as they will. They are never earnestly reproved, injured or 
beaten; a dash of cold water in the face is their heaviest pimish- 
ment. If they assist in the labors of the household, it is as a 
pastime, not as a charge. Yet they show respect to the chiefs, 
and defer with docility to those of their cabin; The attachment 
of savages to their offspring is extreme; and they cannot bear 
separation from them. Hence every attempt at founding schools 
for their children was a failure ; a missionary woiild gather a. little 
flock about him, and of a sudden, writes Le Joune, ''my birds llew 
away." From their insufficient aud irregular supphes of clothing 
and food, they learn to endure hunger and rigorous seasons ; of 
themselves, they become fleet of foot, and skillful in swimming; 
their courage is nursed by tales respecting their ancestors, till they 
burn with a love of glory to be acquired by valor and address. So 
soon as the child can grasp the bow and arrow, they are in his 
hand; and, as there was joy in the wigwam at his birth, and his 
first cutting of a tooth, so a festival is kept for his first success in 
tlie chase. The Indian young man is educated in the school of 
nature. The influences by which he is surrounded nurse within 
him the passion for war; as he grows up, he, in his turn, takes up 
the war-song, of which the echoes never die away on the boundless 
plains of the West; he travels the war-path in search of an 
encounter with an enemy, that he, too, at the great war-dance and 
feast of his band, may boast of his exploits ; may enumerate liis 
gallant deeds by tlie envied featliers of the war-eagle that decorate 
his hair; and may keep the record of his wounds by shining marks 
of vermilion on his skin. 

The savages are proud of idleness. At home, they do little 
but cross their arms and sit listlessly; or engage in games of 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 367 

chance, hazarding all their possessions on the result; or meet in 
council; or sing, and eat, and play, and sleep. The greatest toils 
of the men were to perfect the pahsades of the forts; to manufact- 
ure a boat out of a tree, by means of fire and a stone hatchet; to 
repair their cabins; to get ready instruments of war or the chase, 
and to adorn their persons. Woman is the laborer; woman bears 
the burdens of life. The food that is raised from the eartli is the 
fruit of her industry. With no instrument but a wooden mattock, 
a shell, or a shoulder-blade of the buffalo, she plants the maize, 
the beans, and the running vines. She drives the blackbirds from 
the cornfield, breaks the weeds, and, in due season, gathers the 
harvest. She pounds the parched corn, dries the buffalo meat, 
and prepares for Winter the store of wild fruits; she brings home 
the game which her husband has killed; she bears the wood, and 
draws the water, and spreads the repast. If the chief constructs 
the keel of the canoe, it is woman who stitches the bark with spht 
ligaments of the pine root, and sears the seams with resinous gum. 
If the men prepare the poles for the wigwam, it is woman who 
builds it, and, in times of journeyings, bears it on her shoulders. 
The Indian's wife was his slave; and the number of his slaves was 
a criterion of his wealth. 

The Indians of our republic had no calendar of their own; 
their languages have no word for year, and they reckon time by 
the return of snow or the spi-inging of the flowers ; their months 
are named from that which the earth produces in them ; and their 
almanac is kept in the sky by the birds, whose flight announces 
the progress of the seasons. The brute creation gives them warn- 
ing of the coming storm; the motion of the sun marks the hour of 
the day; and the distinctions of time are noted, not in numbers, 
but in words that breathe the grace and poetry of nature. 

The aboriginal tribes of the United States depended for food 
on the chase, the fisheries and agriculture. They kept no herds; 
they never were shepherds. The bison is difficult to tame, and its 
female yields httle milk, of which the use was unknown to the red 
man; water was his only drink. The moose, the bear, the deer, 



808 TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

and, at the West, the buffalo, besides smaller game and fowl, -were 
pursued with arrows tipped with hart's-horn, or eagle's claws, or 
pointed stones. With nets and spears, fisli wore talcon, and, for 
want of salt, were cured by smoke. Wild fruits, and abundant 
berries, were a resource in their season; and troops of girls, with 
baskets of bark, would gather the fragrant fruit of the wild straw- 
berry. But all the tribes south of the St. Lawrence, except remote 
ones on the northeast and the northwest, cultivated the earth. 
Unlike the people of the Old World, tliey were at once hunters and 
tillers of the ground. The contrast was due to the character of 
tlieir grain. Wheat or rye would have been a useless gift to the 
Indian, who had neither plough nor sickle. The maize springs 
luxuriantly from a warm, new field, and in the rich soil, with little 
aid from culture, outstrips the weeds; bears, not thirty, not fifty, 
but a tliousand-fold ; if once di-y, is hurt neither by heat nor cold; 
may be preserved in a pit or a cave for years, aye, and for cen- 
turies; is gathered from the field by the hand, without knife or 
reaping-hook; and becomes nutritious food by a simple roasting 
before a fire. A little of its parched meal, with water from tlie 
brook, was often a dinner and supper; and the warrior, witli a 
small supply of it in a basket at his back, or in a leathern girdle, 
and with his bow and arrows, is ready for travel at a moment's 
warning. The tobacco plant was not forgotten; and the cultivation 
of the vine, which we have learned of theiu to call the squash, 
with beans, completed their husbandry. 

Duiing the mild season, tliere may have been littJe suft'ering. 
But tlirift was wanting; the stores collected by the industry of the 
women were squandered in festivities. The hospitality of the In- 
dian has rarely been questioned. The stranger enters his cabin, by 
day or by night, without asking leave, and is entertained as freely 
as a thrush or a blackbird that regales himself on the luxuries of 
the fruitful grove, lie will take up his own rest abroad, 
that he nuiy give his own skin or mat of sedge to his 
guest. Nor is the traveler questioned as to the purpose of 
his visit; he chooses his own time freely to deliver his message. 



TREASURES PJIDM TilE I'llOSE WORLD. 300 

Festivals, too, were common, at Bomc of which it was the nilo to 
eat everything that was offered; and the indulgence of appetite 
snrpasHcd Ijcliof. But wliat could he more miscral^le than the tribes 
of the north and northwest, in tlie depth of Winter, suffering from 
an annual famine; driven by the intense cold to sit indolently in 
the smoke around the fire in the cabin, and to fast for days to- 
getlier; and then, again, compelled, Ijy faintncss for want of sus- 
tenance, to reel into the woods, and gatlicr moss or bark for a thin 
decoction, that might, at least, relieve the extremity of hunger? 

Famine gives a terrible energy to the brutal part of our nature. 
A shipwreck will make cannil)als of civilized men; a siege cJianges 
the refinements of urljanity into excesses at which humanity shud- 
ders; a retreating army aljandons its wounded. The hunting 
tribes liave tlie ailectionsof men; Ijut among them, also, extremity 
of want produces like results. The aged and infirm meet with 
little tenderness; the hunters, as they roam the wilderness, desert 
their old men; if provisions fail, the feeble drop down, and are lost, 
or life is shortened by a blow. 

The fate of the desperately ill was equally sad. Diseases were 
believed to spring, in part, from natural causes, for which natural 
remedies were prescriljcd. Of these, the best was the vapor Ijatli, 
prepared in a tent covered with skins, and warmed by means of hot 
stones; or decoctions of bark, or roots, or herbs, were used. Graver 
maladies were inexplicable, and their causes and cures formed a 
part of their religious superstitions; but tliose who lingered with 
tliem, especially the aged, were sometimes neglected and sometimes 
put to death. 

Tlie clothing of the natives was, in Bummer, but a piece of 
skin, like an apron, round the waist; in Winter, a bear-skin, or, 
more commonly, robes made of the skins of the fox and the beaver. 
Tlieir feet were protected by soft moccasins; and to tliese were 
bound the bn^ad snow-shoes, on which, though cumljcrscjiae to the 
novice, the Indian hunter could leap like the roe. Of the women, 
head, arms, and legs, were uncovered; a mat or a skin, neatly pre- 
pared, tied over the shoulders, and fastened to the waist );y a girdle, 

24 



870 TREASUEES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

extended fi-om the neck to the kuees. They ghttered with tufts of 
elk hiiir, brilhautly dyed iu scarlet; nud strings of the various 
kinds of shells were their pearls and diamonds. The Summer gar- 
ments of moose and deer-skins, were painted of many colors; and 
the fairest feathers of the turkey, fastened by threads made from 
wild hemp and nettle, were curiously wrought into mantles. The 
claws of the grizzly bear formed a proud collar for a war-chief ; a 
piece of an enemy's scalp, with a tuft of long hair, painted red, 
glittered on the stem of their war-pipes; the wing of a red-bird, or 
the beak and plumage of a raven, decorated their locks; the skin of 
a rattlesnake was worn round the arm of their chiefs; the skin of 
the polecat, bound round the leg, was their order of the Garter — 
emblem of noble daring. A warrior's dress was often a history of 
his deeds. His skin was also tattooed with figures of animals, of 
leaves, of flowers, and painted ^^^[th lively and shining colors. 

Some-had the nose tipped with blue, the eyebrows, eyes, and 
cheeks, tinged with black, and the rest of the face red; others had 
black, red, and blue stripes drawn from the ears to the mouth; 
others had a broad, black band, hke a ribbon, drawn from ear to 
ear across the eyes, with smaller bands on the cheeks. When they 
made visits, and when they assembled in council, they painted 
themselves gloriously, delighting especiallj'^ in vermilion. 

There can be no society without government ; but among the 
Indian tribes on the soil of our repubhc, there was not only no writ- 
ten law — there was no traditionary expression of law; government 
rested on opinion and usage, and the motives to the usage were 
never embodied in language; they gained utterance only in tlie 
fact, and power only from opinion. No ancient legislator believed 
that human society could be mjiintained with so little artifice. Un- 
conscious of political principles, they remained under the influence 
of instincts. Their forms of government grew out of their pas- 
sions and their wants, and were, therefore, everywhere nearly the 
same. Without a code of laws, without a distinct recognition of 
succession in themagistnu'v, by inheritance or election, government 
was conducted harmoniously, by the influence of native genius, 
virtue, and experience. 



TREASURES FROM THE PRORE WORIiD. H71 

Proliibitory laws were hardly aauctioiiod by aavago ()i)iiii()n. 
The wild man hates restraint, and loves to do what is right in his 
own eyes. As there was no commerce, no coin, no promissory 
notes, no employment of others for hire, there were no contracts. 
Exchanges were but a reciprocity of presents, and mutual gifts 
were the only traffic. Arrests and prisons, lawyers and sheriffs, 
were unknown. Each man was his own protector, and, as there 
was no public justice, each man issued to himself his letter of re- 
prisals, and became his own avenger. In case of death by violence, 
the departed shade could not rest till appeased by a retaliation. 
His kindred would "go a thousand miles, for the purpose of revenge, 
over hills and mountains; through large cane swamps, full of grape- 
vines and briars; over broad lakes, rapid rivers, and deep creeks; 
and all the way endangered by poisonous snakes, exposed to the 
extremities of heat and cold, to hunger and thirst." And blood 
being once shed, the reciprocity of attacks involved family in the 
mortal strife against family, tril)e against tribe, often continuing 
from generation to generation. Yet mercy could make itself heard, 
even among barbarians ; and peace was restored by atoning pres- 
ents, if they were enough to cover up the graves of the dead. 

The acceptance of the gifts pacified the families of tliose who 
were at variance. In savage life, which admits no division of labor, 
and has but the same pursuit for all, the bonds of relationship are 
widely extended. Families remain undivided, having a common 
emblem, which designates all their members as effectually as with 
us the name. The limit of the family is the limit of the inter- 
dicted degrees of consanguinity for marriage. They hold the bonds 
of brotherhood so dear, that a l>rothcr commonly pays the deljt of 
a deceased brother, and assumes his revenge and his perils. There 
are no beggars among them, no fatherless children unprovided for. 
The families that dwell together, hunt together, roam togetlier, 
fight together, constitute a tril)e. Danger from neighbors, favoring 
union, leads to alliances and confederacies, just as pride, which is 
a pervading element in Indian character, and shelters itself in 
every lodge, leads to subdivisions. 



872 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

As the tribe was but a union of families, government was a 
consequence of family relations, and the head of the family was its 
chief. The succession dejjended on birth, and was inherited 
through the female line. Elsewhere, the hereditary right was 
modified by opinion. Opinion could crowd a civil chief into retire- 
ment, and could dictate his successor. Nor was assassination un- 
Iniown. The organization of the savage communities was hke that 
which with us takes jilace at the call of a spontaneous pubhc meet- 
ing, where opinion in advance designates the principal actors; or, 
as with us, at the death of the head of a large family, opinion 
within the famUy selects the best fitted of its sur\dving members t^* 
settle its affairs. Doubtless, the succession appeared sometimes to 
depend on the will of the surviving matron; sometimes to have 
been consequent on birth ; sometimes to have been the result of the 
free election of the ^\•ild democracy, and of silent opinion. There 
have even been chiefs who could not tell when, where, or how, they 
obtained power. 

In hke manner, the different accounts of the power of the 
chief are contradictory only in appearance. The hmit of his au- 
thority would be found in his personal character. The humiliating 
subordination of one -svill to another was everywhere unknown. 
The Indian chief has no crown, or scepter, or guards; no outward 
symbols of supremacy, or means of giving validity to his decrees. 
The bounds of his authority float with the current of opinion in 
the tribe ; he is not so much obeyed, as followed with the alacrity of 
free voHtion; and therefore the extent of his power depends on his 
personal character. There have been cliiefs whose commanding 
genius could so overawe and sway the common mind, as to gain, 
for a season, an almost absolute rule— wliile others had little 
authority, and, if they used menaces, were abandoned. 

Each village governed itself as if independent, and each after 
the same analogies, without variety. If the observer had regard to 
the sachems, the government seemed monarchical; but as, of 
measures that concerned all, "they would not conclude aught unto 
which the people were averse," and every man of due age was ad- 



TIlEASUllES FllOM THE PROSE WORLD. 873 

mittcd to council, it might also be described as a democracy. In 
council, the people were guided by the eloquent, were carried away 
by the brave; and this influence, which was recognized, and regu- 
lar in its action, appeared to constitute an oligarcliy. The affairs 
relating to the whole nation were transacted in general council, 
and with such equality, and such zeal for the common good, that, 
while any one might have dissented with impunity, the voice of tlic 
tribe would yet be unanimous in its decisions. 

Their delight was in assembling together, and listening to 
messengers from abroad. Seated in a semicircle on the ground, in 
double or triple rows, with the knees almost meeting the face — 
the painted and tattooed chiefs adorned with skins and plumes, 
with the beaks of the red-bird, or the claws of the bear — each 
listener perhaps with a pipe in his mouth, and preserving deep 
silence, they would give solemn attention to the speaker, who, with 
great actiou and energy of language, delivered his message ; and, 
if his eloquence pleased, they esteemed him as a god. Decorum 
was never broken; there were never two speakers struggling to 
anticipate each other; they did not express their sj^leen by blows; 
tiiey restrained passionate invective; the debate was never disturbed 
by an uproar; questions of order v/ere unknown. 

The record of their treaties was kept by strings of wampum; 
these were their annals. When the envoys of nations met in 
solemn council, gift replied to gift, and belt to belt; by these, the 
memory of the speaker was refreshed; or he would hold in his 
hand a bundle of little sticks, and for each of them deliver a mes- 
sage. To do this well, required capacity and experience. Each 
tribe had, therefore, its heralds or envoys, selected with reference 
only to their personal merit, and because they could speak well ; 
and often, an orator, without the aid of rank as a chief, by the 
brilliancy of his eloquence, swayed the minds of a confederacy. 
That tlie words of friendship might be transmitted safely through 
the wilderness, the red men revered the peace-pipe. The person of 
him that traveled with it was sacred; he could disaru^ the young 
warrior as by a spell, and secure himself a fearless welcome in 



374 • TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

evei-y cabin. Each village also had its calumet, which was adorned 
by the chief with eagles' feathers, and consecrated in the general 
assembly of the nation. The envoys from those desiring peace or 
an alliance, would come within a short distance of the town, and, 
uttering a cry, scat themselves on the ground. The great chief, 
bearing the peace-pipe of his tribe, with its mouth pointing to the 
skies, goes forth to meet them, accompanied by a long procession 
of his clansmen, chanting the hymn of peace. The strangers rise 
to receive them, singing also a song, to put away all wars, and to 
bury all revenge. As they meet, each party smokes the pipe of the 
other, and peace is ratified. The strangers are then conducted to 
the village ; the herald goes out into the street that divides the wig- 
wams, and makes repeated proclamation that the guests are friends; 
and the glory of the tribe is advanced by the profusion of bear's 
meat, and flesh of dogs, and hominy, which give magnificence to 
the banquets in honor of the embassy. 

But, if councils were their recreation, war alone was the ave- 
nue to glory. All other employment seemed unworthy of human 
dignity; in warfare against the brute creation, but still more against 
man, they sought Uberty, happiness, and renown; thus was gained 
an honorable appellation, while the mean and the obscure ainong 
them had not even a name. Hence, to ask an Indian his name 
was an offense; a chief would push the question aside with scorn; 
for it implied that his deeds and the titles conferred by them were 
unknown. 

The code of war of the red men attests the freedom of their 
hfe. No war-chief was appointed on account of birth, but was, 
in every case, elected by opinion ; and every war-party was but a 
band of volunteers, enlisted for one special expedition, and for no 
more. Any one who, on chanting the war-song, coidd obtain vol- 
unteer followers, became a war-chief. 

Solemn feasts and religious rites precede the departure of the 
warriors ; the war-dance must be danced, and the war-song sung. 
They express in their melodies a contempt of death, a passion for 
glory; and the chief boasts that "the spirits on high shall repeat 



TREASUllES FROM THE PROSE WOULD. 375 

Ills name." A belt painted red or a bundle of bloody sticks, sent 
to the enemy, is a declaration of defiance. As the war-i:)arty leave 
the village, they address the women in a farewell hymn: "Do not 
weep for me, loved woman, should I die; weep for yourself alone. 
I go to revenge our relations fallen and slain; our foes shall he Hke 
them; I go to lay them low." And, with the pride which ever 
marks the barbarian, each one adds, "If any man thinks himself a 
great warrior, I think myself the same." 

The wars of the red men were terrible ; not from their num- 
bers, for, on any one expedition, they rarely exceeded forty men; 
it was the parties of six or seven which were the most to be 
dreaded. Skill consisted in surprising the enemy. They follow 
his trail, to kUl him when he sleeps ; or they lie in ambush near a 
village, and watch for an opportunity of suddenly surprising an 
individual, or, it may be, a woman and her children; and, with 
three strokes to each, the scalps of the victims being suddenly 
taken off, the brave flies back with his companions, to hang the 
trophies in his cabin, to go from village to village in exulting pro- 
cession, to hear orators recount his deeds to the elders and the 
chief people, and, by the number of scalps taken with his own 
hand, to gam the high war-titles of honor. Nay, war-parties of 
but two or three were not uncommon. Clad in skins, with a sup- 
ply of red paint, a bow, and quiver full of arrows, they woixld 
roam through the wide forest, as a bark would over the ocean ; for 
days and weeks, they would hang on the skirts of their enemy, 
waiting the moment for striking a blow. It was the danger of such 
inroads, that, in time of war, made every English family on the 
frontier insecure. 

The Eomans, in their triumphal processions, exhibited cap- 
tives to the gaze of the Roman people; the Indian conqueror com- 
pels them to run the gauntlet through the children and women of 
his tribe. To inflict blows that cannot be returned, is proof of full 
success, and the entire humiliation of their enemy; it is, more- 
over, an experiment of courage and patience. Those who show 
fortitude are applauded; the coward becomes an object of scorn. 



376 TEEASUEES FBOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 



Voices of the Dead. 

" He being dead yet speaketh. " The departed have voices for 
us. In order to illustrate this, I remark, in the first place, that 
the dead speak to us, and commune with us, throiKjh the tvorks 
ivhich they have left behind them. As the islands of the sea 
are the btult-up casements of myriads of departed lives; as the 
earth itself is a great catacomb ; — so we, who live and move upon 
its surface, inherit the productions and enjoy the fruits of the 
dead. They have bequeathed to us by far the larger portion of all 
that influences our thoughts, or mingles with the circumstances of 
our daily hfe. We walk through the streets they laid out. We 
inhabit the houses they built. We practice the customs they es- 
tablished. We gather wisdom from the books they wrote. We 
pluck the ripe clusters of their experience. We boast in their 
achievements. Every device and influence they have left behind 
tells their story, and is a voice of the dead. We feel this more 
impressively when we enter the customary place of one recently 
departed, and look around uj)on his work. The haH-finished labor, 
the utensils hastily thrown aside, the material that exercised his 
care and received his last touch, all express him and seem alive 
with his presence. By them, though dead, he speaketh to us with 
a freshness and tone like his words of yesterday. How touching 
are those sketched forms, those unfilled outlines, in that picture 
which employed so fuUy the time and genius of the great artist — 
Belshazzar's Feast! In the incomplete process, the transition state 
of an idea from its conception to its reahzation, we are brought 
closer to the mind of the artist ; we detect its springs and hidden 
workings, and therefore feel its realitij more than in the finished 
effort. And this is one reason why we are more impressed at be- 
holding the work just left than in gazing upon oiie that has been 
for a long time abandoned. Having had actual communion with 



TBEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 377 

the contriving mind, we recognize its presence more readily in its 
production; or else the recency of the departure heightens the ex- 
pressiveness with which everything speaks of the departed. The 
dead child's cast-off garments, the toy just tossed aside, startle us 
as though with his renewed presence. A year hence they will sug- 
gest him to us, but with a different effect. 

******* 

The dead speak to us in memory and association. If their 
voices may be constantly heard in their works, we do not always 
heed them ; neither have we that care and attachment for the great 
congregation of the departed, which will at any time call them up 
vividly before us. But in that congregation there are those whom 
we have known intimately and fondly, whom we cherished with 
our best love, who lay close to our bosoms. And these speak to us 
in a more private and pecuhar manner, — in mementoes that flash 
upon us the whole person of the departed, every physical and spir- 
itual hneament — in consecrated hours of recollection that open up 
all the train of the past, and re-twine its broken ties around our 
hearts, and make its endearments present still. Then, then, 
though dead, they speak to us. It needs not the vocal utterance 
nor the living presence, but the mood that transforms the scene 
and the hour supphes these. That face that has slept so long in 
the grave, now bending upon us, pale and silent, but affectionate 
stiU; that more vivid recollection of every feature, tone, and move- 
ment, that brings before us the departed, just as we knew them in 
the full flush of life and health ; that soft and consecrating spell 
which falls iipon us, drawing in our thoughts from the present, ar- 
resting, as it were, the cuiTcnt of our being, and turning it back 
and holding it still as the flood of actual life rushes by us, — while 
in 'that trance of soul the beings of the past are shadowed ; old 
friends, old days, old scenes recur; familiar looks beam close 
upon us; famHiar words re-echo in our ears, and we are 
closed up and absorbed with the by-gone, until tears dissolve 
the film from our eyes, and some shock of the actual wakes 
us from our reverie ; aU these, I say, make the dead to commune 



378 TREASUBES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

with us as really as though in bodily form they should come 
out from the chambers of their mysterious silence and speak 
to us. And if life consists in experiences, and not mere physical 
contacts — and if love and communion belong to that experience, 
though they take place in meditation, or dreams, or by actual cou- 
tact— then, in that hour of remembrance, have we really hved with 
the departed, and the departed have come back and lived with us. 
Though dead, they have spoken to us. And though memory some- 
times induces the spirit of heaviness — though it is often the agent 
of conscience and wakens us to chastise — yet it is wonderful how, 
from events that were deeply mingled with pain, it will extract an 
element of sweetness. A writer, in relating one of the experiences 
of her sick-room, has illustrated this. In an hour of suffering, 
when no one was near her, she went from her bed and her room to 
another apartment, and looked upon a glorious landscape of sun- 
rise and Spring-time. "I was suffering too much to enjoy this 
picture at the moment," she says, "but how was it at the end of 
the year? The pains of all those hours were annihilated, as com- 
pletely vanished as if they had never been ; while the momentary 
peep behind the window-curtain made me possessor of this radiant 
picture forevermore." "Whence this wide difference," she asks, 
"between the good and the evil? Because the good is indissolubly 
connected with ideas — with the unseen realities which are inde- 
structible. " And though the illustration which she thus gives bears 
the impression of an individual peculiarity, instead of an universal 
trutii, still, in the instance to which I apply it, I believe it 
will very generally hold true that memory leaves a pleasant rather 
than a painful impression. At least, there is so much that is 
pleasant mingled with it, that we would not willingly lose the 
faculty of memory — the consciousness that we can thus call 
back the dead and hear their voices — that we have the power 
of softening the rugged realities which only suggest our loss and 
disappointment, by transferring the scene and the hour to the past 
and the departed. And, as our conceptions become more and 
more spiritual, we shall find the real to be less dependent upon the 



TREASUKES FHOM THE PiiOSE WOKLD. 379 

outward and the visible — we shall learn how much hfe there is iu a 
thought — how veritable are the communions of spirit with spirit; 
and the hour in which memory gives us the voices of the dead will 
be prized by us as an hour of actual experience, and such oppor- 
tunities will grow more precious to us. No, we would not willingly 
lose the power of memory. 

********* 

Well, then, is it for us at times to hsten to the voices of the 
dead. By so doing we are better fitted for hfe and for death. From 
that audience we go purified and strengthened into the varied dis- 
cipline of our mortal state. We are wilhng to stay knowing that 
the dead are so near us, and that our communion with them may 
be so intimate. We are willing to ijo seeing that wc shall not be 
wholly separated from those Ave leave behind. We will toil in our 
lot wliile God pleases, and when He summons us we will calmly 
depart. When the silver cord becomes untwined, and the golden 
bowl broken — when the wheel of action stands still in the ex- 
hausted cistern of our life, may we he down in the light of that 
faith which makes so beautiful the face of the dying Christian, and 
has converted death's ghastly silence to a peaceful sleep. May wo 
rise to a holier and more visible communing, in the land without 
a sin and without a tear. Where the dead shall be closer to us 
than in this life. Where not the partition of a shadow or a doubt 
shall come between. 




880 TliLASUKES F1{0M THE TilOUE WOELD. 



The Head-Stone. 

The cofifin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the planks 
were removed from the heaped-up brink, the first rattling clods had 
struck their knell, the quick shovchng was over, and the long, broad, 
skillfully cut pieces of turf were aptly joined together, and trimly 
laid by the beating spade, so that the newest mound in the church- 
yard was scarcely distinguishable from those that were grown over 
by the undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant Spring. The 
burial was soon over; and the party, with one consenting motion, 
having uncovered their heads, in decent reverence of the place and 
occasion, were beginning to separate, and about to leave the church- 
yard. 

Here, some acquaintances, from distant parts of the parish, 
who had not had an opportunity of addressing each other in the 
house that had belonged to the deceased, nor in the course of 
the few hundred yards that the httle procession had to move over 
from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands quietly, but cheer- 
fully, and inquiring after the welfare of each other's famihes. 
There, a small knot of neighbors were speaking, without exaggera- 
tion, of the respectable character which the deceased had borne, 
and mentioning to one another httle incidents of his hfe, some of 
them so remote as to be kno^^^l only to the gray-headed persons of 
the group ; while a few yards f lu'ther removed from the spot, were 
standing together parties, who discussed ordinaiy concerns, alto- 
together unconnected with the fiuieral, such as the state of the 
marliets, the promise of the season, or change of tenants; but still 
^^^th a sobriety of manner and voice that was insensibly produced 
by the influence of the simple ceremony now closed, by the quiet 
graves around, and the shadow of the spire and gray walls of the 
house of God. 

Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, A^nth 



TKEASURES FIIOM THE PROSE WORLD. 381 

countenances of sincere, but unimpastiioned grief. They were 
brothers, the only sons of him who had been buried. And there 
was something in their situation that naturally kept the eyes of 
many directed upon them, for a long time, <ind more intently than 
would have been the case, had there been nothing more observable 
about them than the common symptoms of a common sorrow. 
But these two brothers, who were now standing at the head of their 
father's grave, had for some years been totally estranged from each 
other, and the only words that had passed between them, during 
all that time, had been uttered within a few days past, during the 
necessary preparations for the old man's funeral. 

No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers, and 
neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this unnatural 
estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their father's favor; self- 
ish thoughts that will sometimes force themselves into poor men's 
hearts respecting temporal expectations ; unaccommodating man- 
ners on both sides; taunting words, that mean little when uttered, 
but which rankle and fester in remembrance ; imagined ojiposition 
of interests, that, duly considered, would have been found one and 
the same; these, and many other causes, shght when single, but 
strong when rising up together in one baneful band, had gradually 
but fatally infected their hearts, till at last they, who in youth had 
been seldom separate, and truly attached, now met at market and, 
miserable to say, at church, with dark and averted faces, like differ- 
ent clansmen during a feud. 

Surely if anything could have softened their hearts toward 
each other, it must have been to stand silently, side by side, while 
the earth, stones, and clods, were falling down upon their father's 
coffin. And doubtless their hearts were so softened. But j^ride, 
though it can not prevent the holy affections of nature from being 
felt, may prevent them from being shown ; and these two brothers 
stood there together, determined not to let each other know the 
mutual tenderness that, in spite of them, was gushing up in their 
hearts, and teaching them the unconfessed folly and wickedness of 
their causeless quarrel. 



882 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

A head-stoue had been prepared, and a person came forward to 
plant it. The elder brother directed him how to place it, a plain 
stone with a sand-glass, skull, and cross-bones, chiseled not rudely, 
and a few words inscribed. The younger brother regarded the 
operation with a troubled eye, and said, loudly enough to be heard 
by several of the bystanders, "WiUiam, this was not kind in you; 
you should have told me of this. I loved my father as well as you 
could love him. You were the elder, and, it may be, the favorite 
son; but I had a right in nature to have joined you in ordering this 
head-sfcone, had I not?" 

During these words, the stone was sinking into the earth, and 
many persons, who were on their way from the grave, returned. 
For awhile the elder brother said nothing, for he had a conscious- 
ness in his heart that he ought to have consulted his father's son, 
in designing this last becoming mark of affection and respect to 
his memory; so the stone was planted in silence, and now stood 
erect, decently and simply, among the other unostentatious me- 
morials of the humble dead.. 

The inscription merely gave the name and age of the deceased, 
and told that the stone had been erected "by his affectionate sons." 
The sight of these words seemed to soften the displeasure of the 
angry man, and he said, somewhat more mildly, "Yes, we were 
his affectionate sons, and since my name is on the stone, I am sat- 
isfied, brother. We have not drawn together kindly of late years, 
and perhaps never may; but I acknowledge and respect your worth; 
and here, before our own friends, and before the friends of our 
father, with my foot above his head, I express my wiUingness to 
be on other and better terms with you, and if we can not command 
love in our hearts, let us, at least, brother, bar out all unkindness." 

The minister, who had attended the fimeral, and had some- 
thing intrusted to him to say publicly before he left the church- 
yard, now came forward, and aslicd the elder brother why he 
spake not regarding this matter. He saw that there was something 
of a cold and sullen pride rising up in his heart, for not easily may 
any man hope to dismiss from the chamber of his heart even the 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 383 

vilest guest, if once cherished there. With a solemn, and almost 
severe air, he looked upon the relenting man, and then, changing 
his countenance into serenity, said gently — 

"Behold how good a thing it is, 

And how becoming well, 
Together such as brethren are. 

In unity to dwell." 

The time, the place, and this beautiful expression of a natural 
sentiment, quite overcame a heart, in which many kind, if not 
warm affections, dwelt; and the man thus appealed to, bowed down 
his head and wept. "Give me your hand, brother;" and it was 
given, while a murmur of satisfaction arose from aU present, and 
all hearts felt kindher and more humanely toward other. 

As the brothers stood fervently, but composedly, grasping each 
other's hand, in the little hollow that lay between the grave of 
their mother, long since dead, and of their father, whose shroud 
was haply not yet still from the fall of dust to dust, the minister 
stood beside them with a pleasant countenance, and said, "I must 
fulfill the promise I made to your father on his death-bed. I must 
read to you a few words which his hand wrote at an hour when his 
tongue denied its office . I must not say that you did your duty to 
your old father; for did he not often beseech you, apart from one 
another, to be reconciled, for your own sakes as Christians, for his 
sake, and for the sake of the mother who bore you, and, Stephen, 
who died that you might be born? Wlien the palsy struck him for 
the last time, you were both absent, nor was it your fault that you 
were not beside the old man when he died. 

"As long as sense continued with him here, did he think of 
you two, and of you two alone. Tears were in his eyes; I saw 
them there and on his cheek too, when no breath came from his 
hps. But of this no more. He died with this in his hand; and 
he made me know that I was to read it to you over his grave. I 
now obey him : ' My sons, if you wUl let my bones he quiet in the 
grave, near the dust of your mother, depart not from my burial 
till, in the name of God and Clirist, you promise to love one 
another as you used to do. Dear boys, receive my blessing.' " 



384 TREASUKES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

Some turned their heads away to hide the tears that needed 
not be hidden, and vrhen the brothers had released each other from 
a long and sobbing embrace, many went up to them, and, in a 
single word or two, expressed their joy at this perfect reconcile- 
ment. The brothers themselves walked away from the church- 
yard arm in arm with the minister to the manse. On the follow- 
ing Sabbath, they were seen sitting with their families in the same 
pew, and it was observed that they read together off the same 
Bible, when the minister gave out the text, and that they sang 
together, taking hold of the same psalm-book. The same psalm 
was smig (given out at their own request) of which one verse had 
been repeated at their father's grave; a larger sum than usual was, 
on that Sabbath, found in the plate for the poor, for Love and 
Charity are sisters. And ever after, both during the peace and the 
troubles of this hfe, the hearts of the brothers were as one, and in 
nothing were they divided. 



Escape of Harvey Birch, and Captain Wharton. 

The road which it was necessary for the peddler and the EngHsh 
captain to travel, in order to reach the shelter of the hills, lay, for 
half a mile, in fxdl view from the door of the building that had so 
recently been the prison of the latter; running for the whole dis- 
tance over the rich plain, tliat spreads to the veiy foot of the mount- 
ains, which here rise in a nearly perpendicular ascent from their 
bases; it then turned short to the right, and was obliged to follow 
the -vnndings of nature, as it won its way into the bosom of the 
Highlands. 

To preserve the supposed difference in their stations, Harvey 
rode a short distance ahead of his companion, and maintained the 
sober, dignified pace, that was suited to his assumed character. 
On their right, the regiment of foot, that we have already men- 



THEASURES PEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 385 

tioned, lay in tents; and the sentinels, who guarded their encamp- 
ment, were to be seen moving, with measured tread, under the skirts 
of the hills themselves. The first impulse of Henry was, certainly, 
to urge the beast he rode to his greatest speed at once, and by a 
coup -de-main, not only to accomplish his escape, but reheve him- 
self from the torturing suspense of his situation. But the forward 
movement that the youth made for this purpose was instantly 
checked by the peddler. 

"Hold up!" he cried, dexterously reining his own horse across 
the path of the other; "would you ruin us both? Fall into the 
place of a black following his master. Did you not see their 
blooded chargers, all saddled and bridled, standing in the sun be- 
fore the house? How long do you think that miserable Dutch 
horse you are on would hold his speed, if pursued by the Virginians ? 
Every foot that we can gain without giving the alarm, counts us a 
day in our lives. Eide steadily after me, and on no account look 
back. They are as subtle as foxes, ay, and as ravenous for blood 
as wolves." 

Henry reluctantly restrained his impatience, and followed the 
direction of the peddler. His imagination, however, continually 
alanned him with the fancied sounds of pursuit; though Birch, 
who occasionally looked back under the pretense of addressing liis 
companion, assured him that aU continued quiet and peaceful. 

"But," said Henry, "it will not be possible for Caesar to remain 
long undiscovered; had we not better put our horses to the gallop? 
and, by the time they can reflect on the cause of our flight, we can 
reach the corner of the woods." 

"Ah! you little know them, Captain Wharton," returned the 
peddler; "there is a sergeant at this moment looking after us, as if 
he thought all was not right; the keen-eyed fellow watches me like 
a tiger laying in wait for his leap ; when I stood on the horse block, 
he half suspected something was wrong. Nay, check your beast; 
we must let the animals walk a httle, for he is laying his hand on 
the pommel of his saddle; if he mounts now, we are gone. The 
foot soldiers could reach us with their muskets." 

25 



38G TREASUBES FEOM THE PROSE "WORLD. 

"What (Iocs he do?" asked Henry, reining his horse into a 
walk, but, at the same time, pressing his heels into the animal's 
sides, to he in readiness for a spring. 

"He tiirns from his charger and looks the other way. Now 
trot on gently; not so fast, not so fast; observe the sentinel in the 
held a little ahead of us; he eyes us keenly." 

"Never mind the footman," said Henry impatiently, "he can 
do nothing but shoot us; whereas these dragoons may make me a 
captive again. Surely, Harvey, there are horsemen moving down 
the road behind us. Do you see nothing particular?" 

"Hiunph!" ejaculated the peddler; "there is something particu- 
lar, indeed, to be seen behind the thicket on your left; turn your 
head a little, and you may see and profit by it too." 

Henry eagerly seized his permission to look aside, and his 
blood curdled to the heart as he observed they were passing a gal- 
lows, that had unquestionably been erected for his own execution. 
He turned his face from the sight in undisguised horror. 

"There is a warning to be prudent in that bit of wood," said 
the peddler, in that sententious manner that he often adopted. 

"It is a terrific sight, indeed!" cried Henry, for a moment 
veiling his face with his hands, as if to drive a vision from before 
him. 

The peddler moved his body partly around, and spoke with 
energetic but gloomy bitterness — "And yet. Captain Wharton, you 
see it when the setting sun shines full upon you; the air you breathe 
is clear, and fresh from the hills before you. Every step that you 
take leaves that hated gallows behind; and every dark hollow, and 
every shapeless rock in the mountains, offers you a hiding place 
from the vengeance' of your enemies. But I have seen the gibbet 
raised when no place of refuge offered. TAviee have I been buried 
in dimgeons, where, fettered and in chains, I have pnsscd nights in 
torture, looking forward to the morning's dawn that was to light 
me to a death of infamy. Tlie sweat has started from limbs that 
seemed already drained of their moisture, and if I ventured to tlie 
hole that admitted air through grates of iron, to look out upon the 



TREASURES PROM THE PROSE WORLD. 387 

smiles oi luiturc, wliicli God luis bestowed for the meanest of Lis 
creatures, the gibbet has glared before my eyes, like an evil con- 
science, harrowing the soid of a dying man. Four times have I 
been in their power, besides this last; but — twice — twice did I 
think that my hour had come. It is hard to die at the best, Cap- 
tain Wharton ; but to spend your last moments alone and unpitied ; 
to know that none near you so much as think of the fate that is to 
you the closing of all that is eartMy; to think that in a few hours 
you are to be led from the gloom — which, as you dweU on what 
follows, becomes dear to you — to the face of day, and there to meet 
all eyes upon you, as if you were a wild beast; and to lose sight 
of everything amidst the jeers and scoffs of your fellow creatures; 
— that, Ca^jtain Wharton, is indeed to die." 

Henry listened in amazement, as his companion uttered this 
speech with a vehemence altogether new to him. Both seemed to 
have forgotten their danger and their disguises, as he cried — 
"What! were you ever so near death as that?" 
"Have I not been the hunted beast of these hills for three years 
past?" resumed Harvey, "and once they even led me to the foot of 
the gallows itself, and I escaped only by an alarm from the royal 
troops. Had they been a quarter of an hour later, I must have 
died. There was I placed, in the midst of unfeehng men, and gap- 
ing women and children, as a monster to be cursed. When I 
woiild pray to God, my ears were insulted with the history of my 
crimes; and when, in all that multitude, I looked around for a sin- 
gle face that showed me any pity, I coidd find none — no, not even 
one — all cursed me as a wretch who woidd sell his country for gold. 
The sun was brighter to my eyes than common — but then it was 
the last time I should see it. The fields were gay and pleasant, 
and everything seemed as if this world was a kind of heaven. Oh ! 
how sweet life was to me at that moment! 'Twas a dreadful hour, 
Captain Wharton, and such as you have never known. You have 
friends to feel for you ; but I had none but a father to mourn my 
loss when he might hear of it; there was no pity, no consolation 
near to soothe my anguish. Everything seemed to have deserted 
me — I even thought that He had forcjotten that I lived." 



888 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

"What! did you feel that God had forsaken you, Hai-vey?" 
cried the youth, with strong sympathy. 

"God never forsakes his servants," returned Birch, mth rever- 
ence, and exhibiting naturally a devotion that hitherto he had only 
assumed. 

"And -who did you mean by He?" 

The peddler raised himself in his saddle to the stiff and upright 
posture that was suited to the oiitward appearance. The look of 
lire, that, for a short time, glowed upon his countenance, disap- 
peared in the solemn lines of unbending self-abasement, and, 
speaking as if addressing a negro, he repHed: — 

"In heaven, there is no distinction of color, my brother; there- 
fore you have a precious charge within you, that you must hereafter 
render an account of," — dropping his voice; "this is the last senti- 
nel near the road; look not back, as you value your life." 

Henry remembered his situation, and instantly assumed the 
humble demeanor of his adopted character. The unaccoimtable 
energy of the peddler's manner was soon forgotten in the sense of 
his own immetiiate danger ; and with the recollection of his critical 
situation returned all the uneasiness that he had momentarily for- 
gotten. 

"What see you, Harvey?" he cried, observing the peddler to 
gaze toward the buikhng they had left, with ominous interest; 
"what see you at the house?" 

"That which bodes no good to us," returned the pretended 
priest. "Throw aside the mask and wig — you will need all your 
senses •without much delay — throw them in the road; there are 
none before us that I dread, but there are those behind us, who will 
give us a fearful race. " 

"Nay, then," cried the captain, casting the implements of his 
disguise into the highway, "let us improve our time to the utmost; 
we want a* full quarter to the turn; why not push for it at once?" 

"Be cool — tliey are in alarm, but they will not mount without 
an oiScer, unless they see iis fly — now he comes — he moves to tlie 
stables — trot briskly — a dozen are in their saddles, but the officer 



TllEASUKES FliOM THE PROSE WORLD. 389 

stops to tiglitcn his girths — they hope to steal a march upon us — 
he is mounted — now ride, Captain Wharton, for your Hfe, and keep 
at my heels. If you quit me you will be lost. " 

A second request was unnecessary. The instant that Harvey 
put his horse to his speed. Captain Wharton was at his heels, urg- 
ing the miserable animal that he rode to the utmost. Birch had 
selected the beast on which he rode, and, although vastly inferior 
to the high-fed and blooded chargers of the dragoons, still it was 
much superior to the little pony that had been thought good 
enough to carry Cajsar Thompson on an errand. A very few 
jumps convinced the captain that his companion was fast leaving 
him, and a fearful glance that he threw beliind informed the fugi- 
tive that his enemies were as speedily approaching. With that 
abandonment that makes misery doubly grievous, when it is to be 
supported alone, Henry called aloud to the peddler not to desert 
him. Harvey instantly drew up, and suffered his companion to 
run alongside of his own horse. The cocked hat and wig of the 
peddler fell from his head the moment that his steed began to move 
brisldy, and this development of their disguise, as it might be 
termed, was witnessed by the dragoons, who announced their ob- 
servation by a boisterous shout, that seemed to be uttered in the 
very ears of the fugitives — so loud was the cry, and so short the 
distance between them. 

"Had we not better leave our horses," said Henry, "and make 
for the hills across the fields on our left? — the fence vdll stop our 
pursuers." 

"That way hes the gallows," returned the peddler; "these fel- 
lows go three feet to our two, and would mind those fences no more 
than we do these ruts; but it is a short quarter to the turn, and 
there are two roads behind the wood. They may stand to choose 
until they can take the track, and we shall gain a little upon them 
there." 

"But this miserable horse is blown already," cried Henry, urg- 
ing his beast with the end of his bridle, at the same time Harvey 
aided his efforts by applying the lash of a heavy riding whip that 
he carried; "he will never stand it for half a mile further." 



390 TEEASUllES FKOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

"A quarter will do — a quarter will do," said the pedler, "a sin- 
gle quarter "will save us, if you follow my directions." 

Somewhat cheered by the cool and confident manner of his 
companion, Henry continued silently urging his horse forward. A 
few moments brought them to the desired turn, and, as they 
doubled round a point of low under-brush, the fugitives caught a 
glimpse of their pursuers scattered along the highway. Mason and 
the sergeant, being better mounted than the rest of the party, were 
much nearer to their heels than even the peddler thought could be 
possible. 

At the foot of the hills, and for some distance up the dark val- 
ley that wound among the mountains, a thick underwood of sap- 
lings had been suffered to shoot up, when the heavier growth was 
felled for the sake of fuel. At the sight of this cover, Henry again 
urged the peddler to dismount, and to plunge into the woods; but 
his request was promptly refused. The two roads above mentioned 
met at a very sharp angle, at a short distance from the turn, and 
both were circuitous, so that but httle of either could be seen at a 
time. The peddler took the one which led to the left, but held it 
only a moment, for, on reaching a partial opening in the thicket, 
he darted across the right hand path, and led the way up a steep 
ascent, which lay directly before them. This manoeuver saved 
them. On reaching the fork, the dragoons followed the track, and 
passed the spot where the fugitives had crossed to the other road, 
before they missed the marks of the footsteps. Their loud cries 
were heard by Henry and the peddler, as their wearied and breath- 
less animals toiled up the hiil, ordering their comrades in the rear 
to ride in the right direction. The captain again proposed to leave 
their horses, and dash into the thicket. 

"Not yet — not yet," said Birch, in a Ioav voice; "the road falls 
from the top of this hill as steep as it rises — first let us gain the top." 
While speaking they reached the desired summit, and both threw 
themselves from their horses. Henry plunged into the thick under- 
wood, which covered the side of the mountain for some distance 
above them. Harvey stopped to give each of their beasts a few 



TREASUBES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 391 

severe blows of his whip, that drove them headlong down the path 
on the other side of the eminence, and then followed his example. 

The peddler entered the thicket with a httle caution, and avoided, 
as much as possible, rustling or breaking the branches in his way. 
There was but time only to shelter his person from view, when a 
dragoon led up the ascent, and, on reaching the height, he cried 
aloud : — 

"I saw one of their horses turning the hill this minute." 

"Drive -on — spur forward, my lads," shouted Mason, "give the 
Englishman quarter, but cut down the peddler, and make an end of 
him." 

Henry felt his companion gripe his arm hard, as he listened in 
a great tremor to this cry, which was followed by the passage of a 
dozen horsemen, with a vigor and speed that showed too plainly 
how little security their over-tired steeds could have afforded them. 

"Now," said the peddler, rising from his cover to reconnoiter, 
and standing for a moment in suspense, "all that we gain is clear 
gain; for, as we go up, they go down. Let us be stirring." 

"But will they not follow us, and surround this mountain?" 
said Henry, rising, and imitating the labored but rapid progress of 
his companion; "remember they have foot as well as horse, and at 
any rate we shall starve in the hills." 

"Fear nothing. Captain Wharton," returned the peddler witli 
confidence; "this is not the moimtain that I would be on, but 
necessity has made me a dexterous pilot among these hiUs. I will 
lead you where no man will dare to follow. See, the sun is already 
setting behind the tops of the western mountains, and it will be 
two hours to the rising of the moon. Who, think you, will follow 
us far, on a November night, among these rocks and precipices?" 

"But hsten!" exclaimed Henry; "the dragoons are shouting to 
each other — they miss us already." 

. "Come to the point of this rock, and you may see them," said 
Harvey, composedly setting himself down to rest. "Nay, they can 
gee us— notice, they are pointing up with their fingers. There ! one 
has fired his pistol, but the distance is too great for even a musket 
to carry upward." 



392 TBEASUEES FEOM THE PROSE WORLD. 

"They will pursue us," cried the impatient Henry; "let us be 
moving." 

"They will not think of such a thing," returned the peddler, 
picking the chickerherries that grew on the thin soil where he sat, 
and very dehberately chewing them, leaves and all, to refresh his 
mouth. "What progress could they make here, in their boots and 
spurs, with their long swords, or even pistols? No, no — they may 
go back and turn out the foot ; but the horse pass through these 
defiles, when they can keep the saddle, with fear and trembling. 
Come, follow me. Captain Wharton; we have a troublesome march 
before us, but I will bring you where none wiU think of venturing 
this night." 

So saying, they both arose, and were soon hid from view 
amongst the rocks and caverns of the mountain. 



Chesterfield's Letters to his Son. 



Dear Boy: — Pleasure is the rock which most young people 
split upon ; they launch out with crowded sails in quest of it, but 
without a compass to direct their course, or reason sufficient to 
steer the vessel; for want of which, pain and shame, instead of 
pleasure, are the returns of their voyage. Do not think that I 
mean to snarl at pleasure, like a Stoic, or to preach against it, like 
a parson; no, I mean to point it out and recommend it to you, like 
an Epicurean; I wish you a great deal, and my only view is to hin- 
der you from mistaking it. 

The character which most young men first aim at, is that of a 
man of pleasure; biit they generally take it upon trust; and, in- 
stead of consulting their own taste and inchnations, they blindly 
adopt whatever those, with whom they chiefly converse, are pleased 
to call by the name of pleasure; and a niati of pleasure, in the vul- 



TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 393 

gar acceptation of that phrase, means only a beastly drunkard, 
and a profligate swearer and curser. As it may be of use to you, 
I am not unwiUing, though at the same time ashamed, to own, 
that the vices of my youth proceeded much more from my siUy 
resolution of being what I heard caUed a man of pleasure, than 
from my own inclinations. I always naturally hated drinking; 
and yet I have often drunk, with disgust at the time, attended by 
great sickness the next day, only because I then considered drink- 
ing as a necessary qualification for a fine gentleman and a man of 

pleasure. 

The same as to gaming. I did not want money, and conse 
quently had no occasion to play for it; but I thought play another 
necessary ingredient in the composition of a man of pleasure, and 
accordingly I plunged into it without desire at first, sacrificed a 
thousand real pleasures to it, and made myself sohdly uneasy by 
it, for thirty of the best years of my life. 

I was even absurd enough, for a httle while, to swear, by way 
of adorning and completing the shining character which I affected; 
but this folly I soon laid aside, upon finding both the guilt and the 

indecence of it. 

Thus seduced by fashion, and blindly adopting nominal pleas- 
ures I lost real ones; and my fortune impaired and my constitu- 
tion shattered are, I must confess, the just punishment of my 
errors. Take warning by them ; choose your pleasures for yourself 
and do nob let them be imposed upon you. FoUow nature and not 
fashion; weigh the present enjoyment of your pleasures against 
the necessary consequences of them, and then let your own com- 
mon sense determine your choice. 

Were I to begin the world again, with the experience which I 
now have of it, I would lead a hfe of real, not of imaginary 
pleasure. I would enjoy the pleasures of the table and of wine, 
but stop short of the pains inseparably annexed to an excess in 
either. I would not, at twenty years, be a preaching missionary 
of abstemiousness and sobriety; and I shoiUd let other people do 
as they would, without foi-maUy and sententiously rebuking them 



894 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

of it; but I would be most firmly resolved not to destroy my own 
faculties and constitution, in complaisance to those who have no 
regard to their own. I would play to give me pleasure, but not to 
give me pain ; that is, I would play for trifles, in mixed companies, 
to amuse myself, and conform to custom; but I would take care 
not to venture for sums, which, if I won, I should not be the bet- 
ter for, but, if I lost, should be under a difficulty to pay, and, when 
paid, would obhge me to retrench in several other articles. Not to 
mention the quarrels which deep play commonly occasions. 

I would pass some of my time in reading, and the rest in the 
company of people of sense and learning, and chiefly those above 
me; and I would frequent the mixed companies of men and 
women of fashion, which, though often frivolous, yet unbend and 
refresh the mind, not uselessly, because they certainly pohsh and 
soften the manners. 

These would be my pleasures and amusements, if I were to 
live the last thirty years over again ; they are rational ones ; and 
moreover I will tell you, they are really the fashionable ones; for 
the others are not, in truth, the pleasures of what I call people of 
fashion, but of those who only call themselves so. Does good 
company care to have a man reehng drunk among them ? or to see 
another tearing his hair, and blaspheming, for having lost, at play, 
more than he is able to pay? No; those who practice, and much 
more, those who brag of them, make no part of good company; 
and are most unwillingly, if ever, admitted into it. A real man of 
fashion and pleasure observes decency ; at least neither borrows nor 
affects vices; and if he unfortunately has any, he gratifies them 
with choice, delicacy and secrecy. 

n 

Dear Boy : — People of your age have commonly an unguarded 
frankness about them, which makes them the easy prey and bubble 
of the artful and the experienced; they look upon every knave or 
fool who tells them that he is their friend, to be really so; and 



TREASURES FROM THE TROSE WORLD. 395 

pay that profession of simulated friendship with an indiscreet and 
unbounded confidence, always to their loss, often to their ruin. 
Beware, therefore, now that you are coming into the world, of 
these proffered friendships. Receive them with great civility, but 
with great incredulity, too; and pay them with comphmcnts, but 
not with confidence. Do not let your vanity and self-love make 
you suppose that people become your friends at first sight, or even 
upon a short acquaintance. Real friendship is a slow grower, and 
never thrives, unless ingrafted upon a stock of known and recipro- 
cal merit. There is another kind of nominal friendship among 
young people, which is warm for the time, but, by good luck, of 
short duration. This friendship is hastily produced, by their being 
accidentally thrown together, and pursuing the same course of riot 
and debauchery. A fine friendship, truly! and well cemented by 
drunkenness and lewdness. It should rather be called a conspiracy 
against good morals and good manners, and be punished as such 
by the civil magistrate. However, they have the impudence and 
the folly to call this confederacy a friendship. They lend one 
another money for bad purposes; they engage in quarrels, offen- 
sive and defensive, for their accomphces ; they tell one another all 
they know, and often more too; when, of a sudden, some accident 
disperses them, and they think no more of each other, unless it be 
to betray and laugh at their imprudent confidence. Remember to 
make a great difference between companions and friends; for a 
very complaisant and agreeable companion may be, and very often 
proves, a very improper, and a very dangerous, friend. People 
will, in a great degree, and not without reason, form their opinion 
of you, upon that which they have of your friend.s ; and there is a 
Spanish proverb, which says very justly, "Tell me whom you live 
with, and I will tell you who you are." One may fairly suppose, 
that a man who makes a knave or a fool his friend, has something 
veiy bad to do or to conceal. But, at the same time that you care- 
fully decline the friendship of knaves and fools, if it can be called 
friendship, there is no occasion to make either of them your 
enemies, wantonly and unprovoked; for they are numerous bodies; 



896 TBEASUEES FROM THE PEOSE WORLD. 

and I would rather choose a secure neutraUty than an alliance or 
war with either of them. You may be a declared enemy to their 
vices and follies, without being marked out by them as a personal 
one. Their enmity is the next dangerous thing to their friendship. 
Have a real reserve with almost everybody; and have a seeming 
reserve with almost nobody; for it is very disagreeable to seem 
reserved, and very dangerous not to be so. Few people find the 
true medium; many are ridiculously mysterious and reserved 
upon trifles, and many imprudently communicative of aU they 
know. 

The next to the choice of your friends is the choice of your 
company. Endeavor, as much as you can, to keep compauy with 
people above you. There you rise as much as you sink %vjth peo- 
ple below you; for (as I have mentioned before) you are, whatever 
the company you. keep is. Do not mistake, wiieu I say, company 
above you, and think that I mean with regard to their birth; that 
is the least consideration; but I mean, witli regard to tlieir merit, 
and the hght in which the world considers them. 

There are two sorts of good company; one which is called 
the beau monde, and consists of those people who have the lead in 
courts and in the gay part of life; the other consists of those who 
are distinguished by some peculiar merit, or who excel in some 
particular and valuable art or science. For my own part, I used 
to think myself in company as much above me, when I was with 
Mr. Addison and Mr. Pope, as if 1 had been with all the princes 
in Europe. What I mean by low company, which should by all 
means be avoided, is the company of those, who, absolutely insig- 
nificant and contemptible in themselves, think they are honored 
by being in your company, and who flatter every vice and every 
folly you have, in order to engage you to converse \vith them. The 
pride of being the first of the company, is but too common ; but 
it is very silly and very prejudicial. Nothing in the world lets 
down a character more than that wrong turn. 

You may possibly ask me whether a man has it always in his 
power to get into the best company? and how? I say, yes, he has, 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELl). 397 

by deserving it; provided he is but in circumstances which enable 
him to appear upon the footing of a gentleman. Merit and good 
breeding will make their way everywhere. Knowledge will intro- 
duce him, and good breeding will endear him, to the best compa- 
nies ; for, as I have often told you, politeness and good breeding 
are absolutely necessary to adorn any or all other good quahties or 
talents. Without them, no knowledge, no profession whatever, is 
seen in the best hght. The scholar without good breeding is a ped- 
ant ; the philosopher, a cynic ; the soldier, a brute, and every man 
disagreeable. 



Dog-Days. 



Doubtless they have their uses, but they are not agreeable. 
That must be conceded. There is no out-doors. You wake in the 
morning with a mild sense of strangulation, though all your win- 
dows are open at top and bottom. You thrust your head out into 
the morning air, but there isn't any. It has all run to fog. Fog 
lies heavy and gray on the grass. Trees and hills and fences are 
smothered in fog. It creeps into your house, tarnishes aU your 
gilt, swells your drawers and doors so that you can't open them, 
and when you have opened them you can't shut them. It breathes 
upon your muslin curtains, and they turn into Hmpsy strings. It 
steals into your closet, and little blue specks and white feathery 
spots appear on your pies. A pungent taste develops itself in your 
pound cake. The stray citp-custard filched from the general larder 
for private circulation is a keen and acid disappointment. Milk 
refuses to curdle into cheese, and cream will tumble about in your 
chum for hours, and come out mitigated buttermilk at last. 

Flies are rampant. If the cover is left off the sugar-bowl, a 
colony of flies take immediate possession. If your bare arm hap- 
pens to be carrying a vase of flowers ^vith special care, a fly lights 
on your elbow, and proceeds by short and easy stages (to him) to 



898 TEEASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 

your wrist. If yon are writing, a horde of flies institute an inves- 
tigation of your head and hands, with a special commission for 
your nose. You brush them off, and they only rub their fore-legs 
together, bob their heads, brush down their wings, and go at it 
again. Your kitchen ceiling looks like huckleberries and milk. 
All the while it is very warm, but not so warm as it is sticky, only 
the stickiness is all on the outside. Within, you feel a constant 
tendency to fall to pieces, because there isn't brace enough in the 
air to hold you together. If we were English, we should say it 
was nasty weather. Being Americans, we only sigh, "Dog-days!" 

But they must have their uses. Everything is good for some- 
thing. Let us see. First, they are excellent for the complexion — 
a matter in which, whatever we say, we are aU more or less inter- 
ested. Bile-y, jaundice-y, sallow faces clear up into healthy tints. 
Freckles "try out." Pale cheeks tone up into delicate rose, and 
dry, parched, burning flushes tone down to a cool hquescence. All 
the pores are opened, and the whole system languishes in a pleas- 
ant helplessness — pleasant, if one has been so industrious all the 
year, that he can afford to be idle, during the dog-days. 

Dog-days are good as tests. Their effect on curl-paper curls 
is melancholy, but natural curls laugh them to scorn, and riot in 
twistings. Just so the temper. Placidity at Christmas often dis- 
solves in an August fog. What you thought was amiability, may 
have been only oxygen. If you wish to see whether your temper 
can really bear the strains of wind and weather, just remember 
how you went to the middle di-awer in your bureau for gloves, fear- 
ing you should be too late for the cars — how the drawer would only 
come out by hitches, first one side, then the other, and then not at 
all, — how you thrust in your hand up to the wrist, and could just 
not reach the gloves with the end of your longest finger, while 
your Avrist was tortured by the sharp edge of the Jrawer on one 
side, and the sharp edge of the bureau on the other. Did j^ou 
possess your soul in patience? When a shower came suddenly 
pelting down through the fog, and you tried to close the window, 
and got yourself wet through for your pjiins, and couldn't move it 
an inch for aU your shaking and pounding, — when you put your 



TREASURES FROM THE PROSE WORLD. 809 

cake into the oven to "scald," and forgot it, till a sense of some- 
thing burning traveled upstairs to stir your passivity, and you 
rushed down to snatch too late a burnt and blackened loaf, — did 
you reinember the first three words of Psalm xxxvii, 1 ? 

In the calm complacency of a balmy Spring morning, we look 
down with a serene smile on the follies of the world. We assume 
a calm and quiet superiority, give it a pat on the shoulder, and 
say, condescendingly: "Yes, you will do very well; a little rickety 
in the joints; a slight softening of the brain; but very passable 
for your age." Nothing can exceed our amiability when we are 
pleased and comfortable; but, floundering up to the neck in July; 
keeping the breath of Ufe in us only by becoming amphibious and 
web-footed; bound to the earth by no stronger tie than ice-cream 
and sherbet; wooing to our side every passing breeze, as if it were 
the king's daughter, — then, a beflowered, bespangled, bedizened 
abomination, coming betwixt the wind and our nobility, is the 
spear of Ithuriel to our smihng good nature, and we feel disposed 
to pluck its eyes out witli a demoniac delight. 

Dog-days can teach us trust. You have heard of the woman 
who, when her horse ran away, trusted to Providence till the 
breeching broke. A good deal of our trust is like this. We call 
it Providence, but it is really breeching. Not that breeching is 
not a very good thing to trust to as far as it goes, — only it is not 
Providence. So, when our doors can be bolted and locked, we lie 
down in peace and sleep ; but when they won't go to, and we have 
to make a precarious arrangement of sticks and strings, we feel 
more keenly that we awake because the Lord sustained us. 

Dog-days are fiiendly to greenness. Our lawns smile with 
velvet verdure. The fog goes into the soil and wraps it around 
the tender strawberry-vines that we have just transijlunted, and in 
soft swaddling-clothes the young fruit will slumber till next Sum- 
mer's sun shall bid it leap to luxuriant life, and a 'creamy and glo- 
rious death. Down into the heart of the sweet-pea, deep into the 
cup of the morning-glory, steals the kindly mist, and a pink and 
purple splendor crowns the rising day. The cucumber swells its 
prickly sides and snuffs the coming vinegar. The squash-vine 



400 TEEASUEES FEOM THE PEOSE WOELD. 

creeps along the ground, sorrowing that it has all turned to pump- 
kin, but catching from the moist air a deeper shade for the gener- 
ous gold of its blossom. Ah ! in the laboratories of nature the fog 
has a great work to do. 

But the best of dog-days is their departing. Grateful for the 
returning sun and the sweet west wind, we see a deeper blue in 
the sky, and a denser green in the fields. The tall corn waves 
with a stateher grace. The trees are fretted with fresh-springing 
hfe. The earth is a billowy and dimpled emerald, tender and 
smihng; but the sky, — the ever-shifting sky, — is an absorbing and 
pei-petual joy. Sometimes its sweep of stainless blue is glorious 
afar. Then the dying sun leaves its legacy in the west, of saffron 
and amber and pale green. Now the clouds sail out white and 
warm into the central blue, or rush exultant, whirhng-up masses 
of lavender rimmed Avith gold, or shoot from tlie glowing west, 
spires of rosy pink, or mount to the zenith, in delicate shell3 of 
pearl, or lie above the horizon, passionate, breathless, and ruddy, 
floating in seas of fire. Anon they group themselves in all fantas- 
tic shapes. A turreted castle sends down shafts of fight from its 
pearly gates. The mailed warrior places his lance in rest, and a 
couchant lion 

"Scatters across the sunset air 
The golden radiance of his hair." 

"Cloud-land! Gorgeous land!" All grace of outline, all wealth 
of color, are gathered there. Tropical splendor and heavenly 
purity kiss each other, and the angels of God can almost be seen 
ascending and descending. 

So, gazing with thankful and reverent hearts, we remember 
that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from 
God, whose fight is like unto a stone most precious, for tfie glory 
of God doth lighten it, and the Lamb is the fight thereof. 

So, when tlie west winds come laden with fragrance from the 
prairies, and the cold winds blow down from the north, bearing us 
heafing and strength, we will gird up our loins anew to the work of 
the Lord of fight, contented to rest and stand in our lot at tfie end 
of the days. 



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